Skirmish
by fountainpens
Summary: Hermione Granger attempts a life in Muggle London, away from the publicity and chaos of the wizarding world after the war. Yet, her past catches up to her when a new customer enters the small bookstore she manages.
1. Chapter 1

With a hot mug of coffee in one hand and a bundle of keys in the other, Hermione walked briskly towards her bookstore's entrance. The morning sun barely began to pierce through the night air, and yet here she was, ready to begin the day and get some early work done. After fumbling through each key and pressing one into the lock, she finally entered, flipped the "Closed" sign to "Open," and began shedding the multiple layers she wore that morning.

She pulled her knit beanie off her head, freeing the mass of curls tucked beneath, and surveyed her shop. It was small, perhaps a passing customer would even call it cramped, what with the books overflowing from the shelves onto the floor in towering stacks. Yet, this was all _hers_.

To the wizarding world, her name meant one part of a madman's fall. She was the Brains, the Golden Girl, the Muggleborn mastermind who helped a hero achieve his destiny. Her name and her purpose were wrapped up with two others. She loved those two others, always would, but in the years after the war, she found that she needed something of her own. Realizing she'd probably not find that on the Diagon Alley side of the Leaky Cauldron, she tried venturing through to the Muggle side about a year and a half ago.

Since then, Hermione had built a successful small business, populated with the thing she'd always understood and that understood her best. She and Crookshanks also owned their own flat a few blocks down, where her Muggle neighbors smiled politely in the hallways and didn't ask for an autograph or a photo.

She ventured back into wizarding London for the usual get-togethers amongst friends and commemorative social affairs amongst ministers and magistrates. For the most part, however, the brightest witch of her age lived comfortably in peace. Her mentors called it a waste, her friends called it a phase, but she just lived it.

The morning quickly slipped away in a steady stream of inventories, reorganizing the seasonal shelves, and directing the handful of morning customers towards the right section or the right book. Around noon, she made a dash next door, where an old proprietor named Joseph sold sandwiches in a shop family-owned since the War. _Their_ war, Hermione would tell herself, not ours. And yet, it was hers as well, as she reminded herself a moment after that thought crossed her mind.

She ripped through the wax paper and bit into the sandwich, while she strolled back to her own shop. As she glanced up from her meal, she noticed a customer waiting at the door and quickly picked up her pace.

"I apologize," she said, once she reached the door and began fumbling for the keys again. "I just popped next door to pick up a bite to eat. Let me just get this open for you."

Hermione felt the woman silently turn behind her, and from her reflection in the door's glass, Hermione noticed the woman's height - a few inches taller than herself - and her long blonde hair. The reflection triggered something in her memory, but then the lock clicked back. She pushed the door and held it open. Then, when the woman passed her without a glance and entered the shop, Hermione recognized her new customer.

She stood frozen in the doorway, watching as Narcissa Malfoy glided through two shelves and almost disappeared amongst the stacks. If it weren't for the cold winter air rushing through the open door, Hermione might've remained there longer, but the frigid temperature bit her back to life and set her in motion.

Like her days creeping through forbidden corridors and restricted sections, Hermione stepped softly and soundlessly across the front of the shop and towards the register. She kept her eyes trained on where Mrs. Malfoy had disappeared, even though she could only hear the clunk of her heels against the aged wooden floor. The beat of her steps rapped a curious tattoo upon Hermione's spirit, placing her in an odd trance behind the register.

Five years. It'd be five years this Easter since that night at Malfoy Manor. It seemed a lifetime ago, but the years proved it only lied a moment away. Then, this woman's appearance in her shop, in her new life, pulled the gap back together again - the gap between that Hermione and this one.

She remembered her cold voice, in its clipped aristocratic tones. "I saw her picture in the _Prophet_! Look, Draco, isn't it the Granger girl?"

Hermione shuddered at the memory, then her mind flooded with all the horror that came after. She still woke in the night from vivid dreams, where it seemed as if once again Bellatrix Lestrange's cruciatus curse burned through her bones or her knife carved into her skin.

She unconsciously rubbed her forearm, where her own Dark Mark lied. In the years after the war, she wore it proudly as a reminder of what she'd fought and won against. Since her move to Muggle London, however, she hid it with long sleeves or blazers, fearing the questions such a scar would inspire and refusing to glamor it away from her skin.

Hermione suddenly heard her customer's heels against the wood again, crossing a short distance and stopping.

She should tell her to leave. Walk up to her, and say quite simply that her money - Muggle or wizarding or otherwise - was not welcome here. She felt her blood heating at the thought and braced herself for the kind of encounter she once relished, a Gryffindor's pride coming face to face with a Slytherin's shamelessness.

With one foot around the counter and on her way to confrontation, she stopped at the memory of another night spent in a pureblood home.

Ron, Harry, and she were gathered at the Weasleys' kitchen table, all dressed in black. Fred's funeral had just ended, but Hermione and Harry remained with their friend and his family in their grief. At one point, Ron muttered about the unfairness of it all. Fred was buried, while so many villains still remained.

"Like the Malfoys," he spat. An awkward silence hung in the air, and Hermione could only look downward and gently squeeze his hand. Ron looked towards her, his eyes understanding her small gesture of comfort, but then they darted towards Harry in betrayal after his next words.

"She saved me," the Boy Who Lived muttered.

"Oh bollocks, Harry," Ron burst out. "She didn't do a damn thing for you. She did it only for Draco. She's a Slytherin through and through!"

"Or a mother through and through." None of them had noticed Molly's entrance, and yet she stood behind Ron, having apparently heard of whom they were discussing.

When Hermione turned toward Mrs. Weasley, she noticed a shadow pass across her face in the wake of her words. Hermione remembered thinking of the war's many ironies, especially in its final moments. In order to protect their children, a Slytherin mother saved a life, while a Gryffindor mother extinguished one.

Hermione's eyes locked with Mrs. Weasley's, and it seemed almost as if she were thinking the same. She passed through the kitchen in silence, pressing a kiss to Ron's head on her way.

Hermione was called back to the present when a hardcover book snapped onto the counter in front of her. She looked at the book - _Where the Wild Things Are_ by Maurice Sendak. Then smooth light grey gloves were pulled off and placed on the counter, revealing hands pale as alabaster. She was real. She was here. This wasn't a memory. Hermione looked up.

The older woman's eyes immediately registered shock. Hermione knew this woman was renowned for her icy reserve, acquired through her birth and training in the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Yet, she seemed to have the same reaction to Hermione that she herself experienced upon first recognizing the new customer.

Hermione moved toward the book and checked its price. "This will be 10 pounds," she said and stared back at this woman, who'd been an accomplice in her own trauma and her friend's rescue. Rather than a cold-blooded gaze, she was met instead with a questioning one, still moving through the stages of surprise.

Shaking herself free of it finally, she began rifling through her wallet. Hermione heard the chink of galleons against sickles, then finally the swish of pound notes. The blonde slid a ten pound note towards her, still in silence. Noticing her complete inability to grasp the situation emboldened Hermione.

"A little light reading?"

The woman's head tilted slightly at the question, and one eyebrow lifted almost imperceptibly.

"It's for my nephew," she replied.

Hermione wondered for a moment, then realized she was speaking of her grand-nephew. She'd heard from Harry that the two remaining Black sisters had reconciled.

"He'll enjoy it," Hermione whispered, while sliding the book into a paper parcel, folding its edges, and handing it over. "Thank you for coming in, M-"

"It's Ms. Black now," she cut in, as if she regularly had to clarify this.

"Yes, I know, Ms. Black." Then, almost as if the phrase came bursting from within her, "I saw your picture in the _Prophet_."

The arrow landed, and Ms. Black seemed to tremor physically at the impact. She tried to muster a sneer, but it didn't work. Instead, she hastily picked up her gloves, draping them across her purse, and moved toward the exit. Hermione noticed the long emerald-colored wizarding robes peeking from beneath her coat and trailing behind her.

As the entrance door closed shut, it swept the woman and her robes out of the Muggle shop. Its owner stood stock-still for a few moments, until a smug smirk began to spread across her face.


	2. Chapter 2

"Well, that makes two of us who've gotten into verbal spats with her in some random shop."

"It wasn't a spat, Harry," Hermione corrected. "And _please_ don't compare any of my actions to yours in those days, especially when it comes to starting fights."

"Oh, that's right," Harry said through a laugh. "You don't start fights; you just finish them. I seem to remember you ending a fight with your fist once in our third year. Hmm...who was on the receiving end of that?"

Harry's mock-puzzled look eventually made Hermione laugh and smack him on the arm. They sat together in the kitchen of Number 12 Grimmauld Place, while Kreacher muttered around them. Ginny had an away match with the Harpies this weekend, so Hermione came over with some Chinese takeout and the details of her encounter with Narcissa Black.

They sat in companionable silence after Harry's joke. Their chopsticks dug into noodles, and the old grandfather clock in the hall tolled the time - eight o'clock. When Hermione looked towards her friend, she noticed a pensive look on his face. She'd seen that expression before, when he was deciding how to end a Transfiguration paper, for instance, or planning their next move during their days on the run during the war.

Finally, he let his thoughts loose.

"Do you think what I did was right?" Harry hoped Hermione would intuit his meaning, but at her raised eyebrows, it seemed that he'd have to say it all. "Helping pardon her and Draco."

Hermione suddenly felt pulled back to that riotous time immediately following the war, when the Ministry was trying to separate the wheat from the chaff. Many believed their inability to do so properly after the first war perhaps led to the foundation for the second war. So much went wrong then: the botched trial of Sirius Black, the wholehearted faith in Azkaban and its dementors, and finally the oversight and greed that led to so many rich, pureblood "former" Death Eaters to not only remain free but to also achieve positions of power in the intervening years.

The Malfoy family became the scapegoat for these renewed fears after the second war. Almost all the members of Voldemort's inner circle fell during the Battle of Hogwarts, yet the Malfoys remained. Also, it seemed to many that their involvement this time around was even more pronounced. The parents included the son in their allegiance to the Dark Lord, and their Manor became home base for Voldemort and his Death Eaters.

Unlike the rest of the wizarding population, however, Harry and his friends had a few intimate glimpses of the Malfoys during the war, and, for Harry especially, it changed how they viewed the pureblood family.

Ron was a complete lost cause. His father's animosity toward the Malfoys trickled down to him, so of course, Ron ranted and raved when Harry even _mentioned_ Draco's obvious fear on the Astronomy Tower the night Dumbledore was killed or Narcissa's final act in the war, saving his life and giving him the chance to return to the castle and vanquish Voldemort. Ron tried to drill into Harry's skull that what he saw as heroism was really just cowardice under pressure.

Ron was partly right, Hermione thought, but she too noticed various moments, especially during their time at Malfoy Manor, that revealed how the Malfoys were barely in control of their own home. Everything they did that night was out of fear of the Dark Lord and his swift retribution if they made just one more mistake. Then, Hermione's torture came at the hands of a madwoman, blinded by hate, obsession, and years of imprisonment under a dementor's power.

Draco's actions that night also begged for reviewing. He may not've recognized Harry after her hex, but refusing to directly and unquestionably identify Ron and herself? That was odd and unlike the boy they knew, always looking for _any_ opportunity to cast them to the wolves in order to make himself look better.

After Hermione admitted all this aloud, she remembered Ron's shocked and disappointed face. He left Grimmauld Place, slamming the door loudly behind him, and in the wake of Harry's question in the present, she felt almost as if she heard that door slamming once again.

"You did the right thing, Harry," she whispered across the table, breaking through her memories. "Draco was forced to some extent, by circumstances and by Voldemort himself. And if his mother hadn't lied, you'd be dead."

Harry nodded in agreement.

"Lucius deserves Azkaban, though," he declared.

"Yes. If not for his actions during the war, then for what he did to Ginny. He made the first attempt to bring Voldemort back using a Horcrux. That requires punishment."

Once again, Harry nodded, silently thanking his friend for her steady mind. Indeed, that was the compromise they came to and what brought Ron back to speaking terms with them. The wife and son would remain free, but the patriarch would rot in a solitary cell for the foreseeable future.

After working their way together through Harry's momentary doubt, they went back to eating their noodles and cracking open their fortune cookies. Hermione crushed the sweet cookie in her mouth and pondered the words on the small slip of paper. She read, "There is no future, past, only pure presence."

Suddenly, Walburga's portrait began to wail, "BLOOD TRAITOR! ACCURSED DAUGHTER!"

"That'll be Andromeda," Harry declared.

"Oh, are you taking care of Teddy tonight?"

"Yeah! Got him the whole weekend actually!"

They both heard an exasperated, "Will this happen every visit?!" then they no longer heard Walburga wailing. A moment later, Andromeda glided through the kitchen door, carrying a small duffel bag. Teddy ran in behind her, his hair flitting through different colors in his excitement to see his godfather.

"I think part of me does enjoy getting welcomed with such a greeting from Aunt Walburga," she joked on her way in. "It reminds me of all the lovely Howlers she sent after I ran away." Both Hermione and Harry laughed with her and were reminded of the similar dark humor Sirius used to deal with returning to his ancestral home and his long-dead but still disapproving mother. Now, she had Andromeda Tonks to reckon with as well.

Harry scooped Teddy up amidst the laughter and swung him through the air. Andromeda smiled at the spectacle, although Hermione noticed her reach out a couple times when Harry's swings got a little too daring for the boy's grandmother to watch.

"Good evening, you two," Andromeda greeted them both, once everyone had settled. Harry set Teddy down and walked over to welcome Andromeda properly, wrapping her in a hug. Hermione smiled up at them and grew happy at the thought that both of them had each other, since their families were lost to Voldemort's wars.

Well, Hermione reminded herself that Andromeda had her grandson...and Narcissa now. With that thought came again the feeling that was slowly building during her conversation with Harry.

He was right; she _had_ purposely tried to push Narcissa Ma- Black's buttons. Like all of her impulsive actions, Hermione couldn't help but brood over it, and once she was done brooding over this one, she regretted it. Both Harry and she had done so much and spoken publicly about the need for cooperation across the divides the war created. When she had the chance to do that, she blew it.

"Earth to Hermione!" Harry broke through Hermione's thoughts. She looked up and noticed both Andromeda and Harry smiling down at her. "We lost you there for a bit."

"Ugh, I'm sorry," Hermione murmured. "I was thinking."

Harry whispered something to Andromeda about how unsurprising that was, but Andromeda kept staring at Hermione instead. Hermione grew unnerved for a moment - both by the staring contest and the woman's uncanny resemblance to her _other_ sister - and quickly broke eye contact, which kept her from seeing the smirk that curved across Andromeda's lips.

Harry asked whether Andromeda would like some coffee or tea, and she asked for a cup of the former. While Harry readied the coffee for her, with Teddy still running between his legs, he got Andromeda caught up on his work and told her about what he had planned for Teddy's visit. Harry then asked what she had going on this weekend.

"Probably just some relaxation," she began, as Harry walked over, passed her the coffee, and sat down at the table again. "I forgot how exhausting they are at this age. Teddy actually gives Nymphadora a run for her money." They all smiled at the thought. "I also have a couple plans with my sister. Speaking of whom, I've heard someone here has also seen her recently."

Hermione's eyes grew twice their size, making her look like a child who'd been caught staying up after bedtime. Harry laughed obnoxiously both at her expression and the situation itself, knowing Hermione was still agonizing over it.

"I - for once - can say I was _not_ the person who decided to go at it with a Malfoy," he said.

"For the last time," Hermione threateningly turned towards her friend. "I didn't _go at it_. And furthermore, she's not a Malfoy." Harry merely shot his hands up in surrender and continued laughing.

"Sorry, I'll make sure to get my version of events, including last names, right next time." Harry then turned back to Teddy and began talking to him about the big weekend ahead.

"How do you know?" Hermione asked Andromeda.

"Oh, she dropped off the book for Teddy and mentioned the encounter."

"Did she?" Fear and anxiety obviously laced Hermione's words. "What did she say about me?"

Andromeda smiled and grasped her cup of coffee. As she lifted it to her lips, she remembered all the times she had answered that question, uttered by some hopeless boy in the Slytherin common room back in their day.

"I'd told her about the book and that she'd have to go to a Muggle shop for it," Andromeda began. "So when she began telling the story, you can imagine my own surprise that she'd happened upon your shop. She mentioned you, of course, and wondered what you were doing working there."

"And she said nothing else?" Hermione was on the edge of her seat now, hoping that the woman hadn't mentioned Hermione's barbed comment.

"Well…" Andromeda sipped at her coffee slowly, while Hermione waited for her to continue. "She may've said something about how 'words were exchanged.'"

"...That's it?" Hermione didn't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. Before her feelings could settle on either one, however, she noticed Andromeda begin to laugh to herself. Hermione gave her a curious look, and Andromeda answered it.

"One of the rather wonderful things about reconnecting with my sister again, Hermione, is that I continue to notice how she hasn't changed. I mean, those small things she used to do: the way she drinks her tea almost soundlessly or how she rubs her eyebrow when she's nervous or when she whispers her to-do list to herself before heading out for the day. All those things are still there. Included amongst those small habits was that, whenever someone put her in her place - which didn't happen too often, mind you - she'd never admit it besides saying, 'Some words were exchanged.'"

Andromeda lifted her eyebrows at Hermione, who groaned and dropped her head into her hands.

"So, I have to ask," Andromeda said. "How exactly did you get the better of Narcissa Black?"

Hermione remained silent, her elbows on the table and her hands covering her reddening face. Andromeda wondered why the girl seemed so embarrassed. If it were her, she'd be hollering in victory over getting one over on her sister.

"It was wrong," Hermione murmured through her fingers. "I mentioned something that I shouldn't have...from the war."

"Oh…" Now, Andromeda understood. "What exactly, if I might ask?"

Hermione dropped her hands and looked directly at Andromeda.

"Something she said during our night at Malfoy Manor."

Andromeda grimaced, knowing exactly which night Hermione was referring to. "The Skirmish at Malfoy Manor," the papers had called it after the war, when the smear campaign against the Malfoys was in full swing. Andromeda knew a bit more about it, of course. Harry had given her a brief synopsis, which cautiously skimmed over Hermione's torture and Bellatrix's part in it. Andromeda had seen Hermione's scar and knew whose knife caused it. She wanted to tell Hermione she was sorry, but she realized long ago that she never knew _that_ Bellatrix - the one who'd torture innocents and the one who'd eventually kill her Nymphadora.

So she'd never broached the subject of that night with Hermione or even her sister. Narcissa had mentioned it once. "The night we had Potter and his friends at the Manor," she'd recalled. She quickly changed the subject during that conversation, though. They'd talked through many past moments, but that night was still too fresh a memory. Knowing this, Andromeda understood why Hermione's comment about that night hit its mark.

"I shouldn't have said it," Hermione declared. "It was stupid and impulsive and not at all the kind of behavior that represents who I am and what we fought for." She gestured around the table, including each person.

"Don't get carried away though either," Harry put in, turning from Teddy to the two witches. "You did something on an impulse. And it was a small comment! It's not as if you called her out for her 'crimes against humanity,' or some other Rita-Skeeter bollocks, in the middle of Diagon Alley."

"That's not the point, Harry. Whether it happened in public or private, or whether small or large, we should all take an honest look at our actions and revise them when necessary. You, of all people, should know that." She gave him a look as if to say, _Remember the conversation we were_ just _having about_ your _regrets._

"Yes, I know, but your life isn't a Potions assignment, 'Mione. You can't 'revise' something you did just because you gave it a once over. It's done! The key is to move forward, learn from your mistakes, and act differently from there on out. Besides, how exactly would you 'revise' this action?"

The room fell silent, while Andromeda and Harry waited for Hermione's answer. Finally, she nodded to herself.

"I'll write her a note. I'll apologize there, then let the chips fall where they may."

Harry looked ready to launch into another comment, but Andromeda lifted her hand and stopped him from doing so.

"If this is what you need to clear your conscience," Andromeda began. "Then go ahead and send it, Hermione. It's always best to err on the side of kindness. If she doesn't answer or accept, then that's her problem not yours."

"Yes," Hermione groaned. "At least, I'll just get her off my mind."

Harry accepted this option and finally understood where she was coming from. At Hermione's words, however, Andromeda's brow furrowed. Once again, her mind flashed back to the other Slytherin students who agonized over their actions toward Narcissa during their younger years. Those were something different, though, Andromeda told herself. Yet, Hermione's words and actions that evening would continue to tickle her mind long after she bid them good night.

Andromeda left shortly thereafter, squeezing Teddy towards herself and looking as if she was beginning to regret leaving him for an entire weekend, but then she looked at Harry's beaming face and knew he was in safe hands. She also gave Hermione a kind farewell, then went on her way.

Harry began readying Teddy for bed, while Hermione tossed out the takeout boxes and cleaned up the kitchen despite Harry's protests. As she wiped the table, she noticed a book poking out of Teddy's bag. She pulled it out and saw the same copy of _Where the Wild Things Are_ that Narcissa bought at her shop. She opened the front cover and read the message written there in a sweeping, almost decorative cursive: "Here for you now and always. Your Aunt Cissa."

The next morning, Hermione sat at the small desk in the makeshift library she created in her flat. A few pieces of parchment lied crumpled at her feet, but now she seemed to be reading a single piece lying flat on the desk's surface.

 _Ms. Black,_

 _When you visited my shop the other day, I made a remark that I should not have. It recalled a night that I am sure you would like to forget as much as I do. While I do believe we should all answer for our actions, I do not believe that making petty comments or underhanded insults is the way to achieve that._

 _I apologize for using that moment so long ago against you now in the present. As a peace offering, I was hoping you would be amenable to meeting for a cup of tea, so that I may apologize in person as well. Words on a piece of parchment are often so unsatisfactory. I have realized this in my time out of school and in the real world._

 _Please let me know at your earliest convenience if you would be interested in meeting with me. I will be looking for your owl._

 _With all sincerity,_

 _Hermione Granger_

Hermione released the breath she'd been holding as she read, then before she had the chance to think any further, she folded the parchment, addressed it, and gave it to her owl to send. She watched as the owl's wingspan grew fainter and fainter until finally it disappeared in the misty colors of the morning.

 **A/N: Thanks to those of you who've reviewed the first chapter! I'm creating this as I go, so your reviews, comments, suggestions mean a lot.**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thanks so much to everyone for all the follows and reviews! I'm going to be super busy working next week, so I thought I'd post this short snippet here beforehand in order to simultaneously appease and annoy everyone. lol. Let me know what you think! Happy Friday!**

The rest of Saturday passed, and Hermione occupied herself with errands and skimming a couple new releases, while managing the shop. She chuckled every time she looked out the window, searching for an owl in the sky. _She just received it this morning. Don't be ridiculous._

Sunday passed much like Saturday did, although Hermione's eyes wandered outside much more frequently, and she even jumped up a few times at the mirage of an approaching owl. No response came.

By Monday, she was an anxious mess. Opposing thoughts like _I should've never sent the damn thing_ and _Why won't she at least respond?!_ flitted in and out of her mind as she opened her shop that morning. A few of her regulars came in, and they all wondered after Hermione's near-silence and her obvious preoccupation with something else.

Once noon rolled around, Hermione had given up. She actually laughed to herself while eating the salad she'd brought with her from home. It was stupid to think she'd return the note. Her sense of duty got in the way of realizing that some people maybe didn't want to mend broken bridges or didn't care to. Bloody Gryffindor honor. It was times like these when she realized how much her messy-haired, bespectacled friend had rubbed off on her.

Yet, rather than regret the whole ordeal, Hermione was glad it happened - both running into the pureblood witch and sending her that apology. She realized she needed both those moments to help continue her journey away from Hermione Granger, "Heroine of the Second War against Voldemort," and towards Hermione Granger, "Still to be Determined." Just as she told herself multiple times before, it was time she carved out a space for herself, and rehashing the past with a former enemy may not be the best way to do that.

She shook her head, tossed out the remains of her lunch, and with them, pushed away what small hope she still had left that the Ice Queen herself would deign to return a message sent by a Muggleborn upstart.

As a result, her afternoon customers were greeted with the kind, interesting proprietor they'd come to expect, who seemed to know about every book on the shelf and also carried an odd energy within her that both attracted and puzzled them.

"I've recently seen the film and quite enjoyed it," said the old woman who'd entered a few minutes ago. Hermione looked up from her bookkeeping and squinted at the title the woman held up - _Gone Girl_ by Gillian Flynn. Hermione looked again at the woman - an octogenarian with crisp white hair, a pastel suit ensemble, and a light wooden cane - and barely held in the laugh that the thought of _this_ woman watching _that_ film conjured.

"Yes, it was rather good, wasn't it?" Hermione replied. "They made a few changes, especially in the ending, so I'd recommend the novel as well if you liked the film."

"Sold!" The woman intoned, then began her slow walk to the register. Hermione quickly rang her up and placed one of the new store bookmarks she'd made over the weekend in the book. The customer took her parcel, and Hermione returned to her work.

Suddenly, a shriek from the front door caught her attention.

Just as the old woman opened the shop's door, a large eagle owl barreled in, making a mess of the woman's hair and of the book display right at the entrance. The woman continued to scream and swing her purse around, but the owl hardly noticed and flew straight to Hermione, landing on the counter and clutching a small note in its beak.

"Good heavens!" The woman gasped through shallow breaths. "Is that an owl?!"

"Um…" Hermione wasn't sure how to proceed. She looked at the owl, then at the frightened old woman. "Looks like it is, yes! How curious!"

In a misguided effort to assuage the woman's fears, Hermione ran her hand down the feathers of its head and back. Of course, rather than put the woman at ease, this gesture caused her to look frighteningly at both the owl _and_ Hermione now.

She muttered something about calling animal services, then quickly exited the shop.

Hermione waited a few moments after the woman had left, just to make sure she wouldn't return, then lunged toward the magnificent looking owl and pulled the folded parchment from it. Once she did, the owl took flight again, only this time leaving through the recess window above her rather than the front door. Apparently, a reply wasn't expected. Hermione's stomach dropped at the realization.

She looked down at the note folded and sealed with crimson red wax. Hermione noticed the Black coat of arms pressed into the melted wax and repressed a shudder at the skull and crows. She slipped her finger between the folds of parchment and broke the seal.

 _Ms. Granger,_

 _I can assure you that your words had no noticeable effect on me or my peace of mind. Yet, since your weak attempt at an insult seems to have backfired and left a barb in your own chest, I grant you my forgiveness for whatever pain you seem to think you have caused._

 _Regarding your request, I see no point in a formal meeting after my reply here. If this is one of your altruistic crusades, then I must remind you that I am not a house elf. I require neither your charity nor your pity._

 _Let us leave the past where it belongs - with the dead._

 _Narcissa Black_

After the first few sentences, Hermione felt the blood drain from her face, but then it swiftly returned with a healthy dose of rage at its heels once she finished reading the note entirely. She savagely gripped the piece of parchment and seemed about to rip it in half.

"What a _bitch_ ," she rasped, her voice gravelly in anger and wounded pride. "And _how_ does she know about S.P.E.W.?!"


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Wow! I've been so overwhelmed by everyone's responses - both through favoriting/following the story or through reviews. Here's the next chapter, and I hope you all enjoy it! Please leave a review and let me know what you think. :) Have a great weekend!**

Narcissa splashed cold water on her skin and ran her hands across the planes of her forehead, cheekbones, and chin, trying to remove whatever suds were left from her cleanser. As she opened her eyes, her unadorned face reflected back towards her in the opulent mirror. Her wet right hand rested against her neck, and she watched the water droplets slide down her face, her jaw, then finally drip from her chin, wetting the marble countertop.

She closed the faucet, grabbed a towel, and gently patted her face dry. She did all this while keeping her gaze trained on the image in the mirror - a witch now in her late forties, living alone in the house of her ancestors.

She moved closer to the mirror and pressed her hand against its surface, half-expecting it to ripple upon contact. Yet, the glass remained smooth. She ran her finger across the reflection's face, the fine lines emerging here and there, signs of a life lived in extreme highs and lows. For a witch of her age, however, the lines could hardly be called such a thing. And for a woman? Well, a Muggle would most probably take her for a woman in her late twenties, early thirties at most. Her image remained as smooth as the mirror upon which it reflected.

The true cracks ran deeper. The skin of her face was unmarred, but she bore scars nonetheless, hidden ones and invisible ones only she knew of.

She wiped her hand across the mirror, effectively ending the moment and the dialogue between herself and herself.

Narcissa grabbed the pot of moisturizing lotion from Madame Dionea's shop. When she unscrewed the top, she grimaced at the swiftly dwindling supply it contained. She'd have to make another order soon, although the ones they delivered never seemed as fresh as the ones they made per customer in the shop. She scooped up a generous amount on her fingertips and smoothed it over her face, massaging it into her cheeks and forehead, instantly feeling the lightness it brought to her skin.

She inhaled its lavender scent and finally made her way out of the bathroom, padding across the cold tiles and onto hardwood, broken up by sumptuous carpets from gods-know what century.

"Coffee," she softly said aloud. A few moments later, a steaming cup materialized on the table in the small sitting area of her suite. She stood above it, taking in its aroma and ensuring that Whishee had used the new roast she'd found at that cafe last week. She then untied the ribbon holding her long blonde hair back and sat upon a chaise lounge.

She slowly sipped her coffee, while staring absentmindedly around the room. This had been her mother's old suite, and it still bore the marks of her fastidiousness and taste. Black family aesthetics ruled the decor, of course, but here and there, the lighter, midcentury touches made their presence known.

Narcissa's eye rested on the silver toilette set meticulously arranged upon the vanity. She recalled how many times her mother held the heavy hand mirror, while her daughters chose the jewelry she'd wear to that evening's event.

Or what of the chaise she now lounged upon? Her mother had sat there, while wiping the tears from her face after Andromeda left. " _Do not cry in front of your father." Then she'd hesitantly added, "Or Bellatrix."_ Narcissa had learned how to turn her face to stone on that day, while watching her mother train her grief into an unfeeling mask.

The first time her sister visited her again here, Andromeda could barely make it past the foyer. The breath she exhaled upon entering shook on her trembling lips, and her eyes were instantly glassy and distant. Still, after almost two years of reconciliation, she could not venture upstairs, to her parents' former rooms, or her sisters', or hers.

" _Too many memories," Andromeda had whispered on that first day_.

Now, as Narcissa sat in her mother's suite - _her_ suite - and allowed herself to really look at it all, she understood Andromeda's conundrum. How exactly does one re-enter a home and a past they were once banished from? In Narcissa's case, how does one build a future from that past and that history, which once made her so proud and now, as her gaze drifted to the "Toujurs Pur" etched over the bedroom door's dark wooden frame, made her feel nothing but a mild disgust?

After her divorce from Lucius, she immediately retreated here, to the Black family's home in Cornwall. Returning to Malfoy Manor for that period after the war and during their trials had been a disaster. Each room held the spectral remains of some person - enemy or follower - whose life was extinguished at the Dark Lord's whim. She hardly ever dared to remember her own family's tortures there, both mental and physical. Yet, they still replayed themselves in flashes. Lucius's return from the fiasco at the Ministry, for instance, or the punishments they'd all received from the Dark Lord the night they let Potter slip away.

At that thought, Narcissa's gaze slid to the small writing desk in the corner. It was an addition her mother had made to the suite, she remembered now, complete with an organizer for extra ink, quills, and parchment. Her mother's correspondence was impeccable. Whether it was a note to a friend or a response to an invitation, Narcissa recalled how she'd slowly and methodically scrape her quill across the page, enjoying each loop and stroke of each word.

Narcissa's own correspondence had fallen over the years. She remembered how, between the wars, she could barely keep up with all the invites and greetings and letters. Now, however, in the years since the war and since her husband's imprisonment, owl visits slowed to a trickle.

The pureblood families who managed to make it through the war unscathed were hesitant to reach out to the matriarch of Malfoy Manor. The _Prophet_ had done its work well during the campaign against her family, and indeed, she had no right to feel angry about it. Lucius _had_ aided Voldemort's return, and they _had_ harbored him in their home during his reign of terror. She understood it all and hardly felt surprised at the abandonment of so many so-called friends. They were all leeches anyway, hoping to gain from their proximity to the most powerful pureblood couple of the time.

Although she'd never admit it to herself, Narcissa had hoped her former social life would return after her divorce. She had forgotten that if there's anything pureblood bigots hate as much as scandal and Mudbloods, it was a divorcee. Never mind that her family name was Black, and she was the last to own to an ancient dynasty. That tree was blighted, she knew. Her sisters and cousins had seen to that, and she couldn't help but smile at the fantastic disaster they'd made of the final generation of Black wizards and witches.

For the past few years then, only a couple owls made their way to her ancestral home. Draco's flew from his flat in London, where he was trying to establish himself in the Ministry in spite of his family name. Andromeda's flew from her home with Teddy. Thus, when an unfamiliar owl pecked at her window last Saturday morning, Narcissa's puzzlement was understandable.

The letter it carried still sat upon her mother's desk, although Narcissa had already replied. It was that letter that caught her eye now, as the memories of her past caught up to her present. She sipped at her coffee again, thinking of the Granger girl's words that, by now, she practically knew by heart. For indeed, no matter what she wrote in her reply, this girl's words mattered - both the ones she'd spoken and the ones she'd written.

It is not as if Miss Granger were the first person to try some sly insult on her. Narcissa had practically grown used to the muttered remarks or passing jabs from strangers, acquaintances, and even former friends. They mostly used her sister or her husband's actions against her. Some victim of Bellatrix's madness was thrown at her feet. Either that, or her husband's cowardice became the dagger launched at her unyielding breast. Neither of these remarks ever hit their mark.

That is where the difference in Miss Granger's comment lied. While Narcissa could brush the others off as people trying to use her as a scapegoat for the Dark Lord and his followers' crimes, Miss Granger's remark pointed directly at her and the part she had played in that night.

Most days, Narcissa could etherize her riotous thoughts by telling herself she never really followed him. She bore no Dark Mark on her skin and was never tried as a Death Eater. She remained outside the inner circle and thus outside the main thrust of culpability. Then, with that girl's words, her pleasant fiction collapsed.

Here was a person who'd seen the active part she played in the Dark Lord's war. Using her own words against her, Granger struck her hard and true. Then, as if to pour salt in the wound, she'd sent an apology. _She_ apologised to _her_ for telling the truth. All of it sent Narcissa's mind in a whirl, prompting her to lash out the only way she knew how, tapping into her vanity and her prejudice.

No matter how right she was, that child could not hold something over her. She was Narcissa Black. Once she burnt a bridge, she didn't look back upon its smoldering embers. She moved forward and survived. The girl's words beckoned her to review a time and an aspect of herself she feared. She flung that prospect back with vehemence and, in the days since, tried to act as if it all never happened.

The letter still remained on her desk, though, and the words still haunted her.

Narcissa drank the last of her coffee. It was cold by now, but the bitter dregs still retained their depth. She felt them run along her taste buds and fill her mouth with an earthy acidity. She returned the cup to its place, and it popped into thin air shortly thereafter.

* * *

That afternoon, Narcissa sat in the library, drawing up accounts and trying to keep her mind from wandering over to the books that lined the walls. Her long platinum hair sat atop her head in a large knot she'd charmed into place.

When her mind ran too quickly with other chaotic thoughts, she sat down in the library to either read a book or draw up accounts. The former would only continue her morning's train of thought, so she settled for the latter.

Narcissa was now the sole heiress to the Black family fortune, which she planned to invest and enlarge in order to leave it all to Draco. Her divorce with Lucius helped, as well. He was surprisingly contrite during that time, at least with her and their son. Most of his fortune went to Draco, of course, but he settled a large amount with her as well. His faults were many, but he knew that, without her, their family would not have survived the war. Their marriage may not have been a great many things, but she was a dutiful wife. He respected that partnership and thanked her the only way he knew how - giving her a portion of his fortune.

Taking all that into account, Narcissa Black was one of the richest witches in England, though she spent little of it. Being an outsider and a self-imposed exile in her own community led to a rather thrifty life.

A small pop interrupted her scribblings, and her only remaining house elf stood by her.

"Master Draco is here to see you, Mistress," Whishee announced.

"Send him here, Whishee," Narcissa replied, while finishing some last notes and checking the time. "Also, prepare tea."

"Yes, Mistress." Another pop and the elf disappeared.

Narcissa closed the books and let her hair free. Just as she began to rise, the door opened, and her only son entered.

Draco Malfoy had changed considerably since his days in school. The sneer he'd learned from his mother now never darkened his features. Instead, his pale eyebrows sat nearer to each other, as if he were perpetually about to ask a question. His eyes had retained the sunken quality they'd acquired during his sixth year at Hogwarts, almost as if his face never quite got over those sleepless nights and the stress that came with them.

His mother noticed all these qualities, and they pained her each time she saw her son. To the rest of the world, however, young Malfoy seemed to be fine. A bit quieter to those who knew him at Hogwarts, but in the years since Voldemort's fall, some of his wit and knowledge had returned, although without the biting edge it once possessed.

He smiled as he crossed the library and embraced his mother. Lucius had always frowned upon these displays of overt affection, but Narcissa usually just squeezed Draco tighter or kissed his cheek a few more times in response, while they both laughed at Lucius shaking his head. She was the pureblood Ice Queen to the rest of the world, but to her son, she was warmth and comfort and overflowing love.

She kissed him against his temple, then moved back, grabbed him by his arms, and took a long look at him.

"Your hair needs to be cut, darling." She pushed the fringe out of his eyes, but Draco gently removed her fingers.

"I like it this way, mum," he said, giving her one of those charming smiles that reminded her so much of his father at that age.

"Fine, I won't force you to look presentable," Narcissa replied with a smile.

"Because you've _never_ done that before?" The sarcasm dripped from his words, as he remembered all the times she'd straighten a bowtie or scrutinize his tuxedo's fit before they entered an event.

Behind Narcissa, Draco noticed a full tea set materialize, complete with small sandwiches and a few of the biscuits Whishee knew he liked. He guided his mother to the couch and sat down after her.

She served the tea, and they began discussing what he'd been busy with. Draco, after much grovelling and lower-level work below his capabilities, finally gained a position in the Ministry's Department of Mysteries. He couldn't share much about his new job with his mother, given the department's intense secrecy, but he did mention how he could finally utilize his self-taught skills in alchemy, a combination of potions and transfiguration that sparked his interest and helped him out of his postwar depression.

"But I actually came here to talk to you about something else," Draco hesitantly added, after his mother grilled him on what she could regarding the first steps of his career. Now, however, she sat up even straighter at his words and stopped fiddling with his hands as he spoke. "I've been seeing someone, and-"

"For how long?" Narcissa interjected through a loud gasp.

"Just a couple months."

"And you're only telling me _now_?!" Her hand shot up to her chest in a classic pose that told her son he should tread softly from here on out.

"I wanted…," he began hesitantly. "I wanted to be sure things were serious before introducing her to you. We've finally gotten to that point, I think."

Narcissa still stared at him as though he'd confessed some grave crime. She wouldn't let him easily get away with keeping something from her for _two months_.

"What is her name?" She asked coldly, sounding like a cross examiner in a courtroom.

"Astoria," Draco answered, trying to sound confident but starting to wonder whether he should've gone about this differently. "Astoria-"

"Greengrass. Yes, I'm aware. And how did you meet?"

"I was out with a few of the old classmates from school. You may remember that Daphne, her older sister, was in my year. She brought Astoria along for drinks with all of us."

"And when did you start-" Narcissa narrowed her eyes "- _seeing_ one another?"

"Shortly after that. I think the next day, I owled her."

"Directly?!"

"Yes, mother! It's not 1870!"

Narcissa gave him a look, then continued. "Where have you taken her?"

"Like on our dates?"

Narcissa nodded once.

"To restaurants, mostly. She likes music, so I took her to see the London Wizarding Orchestra. A picnic one day. She came up with that one." Then, Draco began to blush and scratch the back of his neck. Narcissa caught this gesture, and her eyes grew wide.

"Draco Malfoy, _please_ tell me you've been a gentleman," she intoned with all the force of her ancestry and motherhood.

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"You know _exactly_ what I mean, young man."

Draco dropped his beet red face into his hands. Through his fingers, his mother made out a muffled groan. After a few moments, he heaved a large breath, then sat up straight again, braced to continue battle.

"If you're talking about _that_ ," Draco gulped, "then no - we haven't gone that far yet. She's been very...assertive, though."

At that, Narcissa frowned. _What_ had that harlot been persuading her precious boy to do?! Her family may be one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, but the Greengrasses were always known for their free-thinking tendencies. _Just a few steps away from the Weasleys_ , Narcissa's mother had once said, _although they had the decency not to betray Slytherin house._ Narcissa closed her eyes, trying to rid away all the thoughts running through her head, thoughts that only devolved into more anti-Greengrass vitriol.

Draco took advantage of her silence.

"I'd really like for you to meet her, mum." He leaned over and took one of her hands in his. "She's beginning to mean a lot to me." Narcissa finally opened her eyes and looked directly at her son, who'd suddenly turned into a man in a seemingly serious relationship. "She makes me better. I may be getting ahead of myself, but I think she's good for me...and for the family I want to build."

Narcissa understood what he meant by that final addition, and it halted the negative thoughts she'd started on just a moment ago. This girl would perhaps, with her pureblood name without the militant pureblood tendencies, give her son the balance he needed. Narcissa always thought she, his mother, would be the one to do that, to protect him and forge a way for him in the world.

That world had dramatically changed, though, and Narcissa was as helpful to Draco's future in it as his imprisoned father. As much as it pained her to admit this, she knew the truth. Draco's words gestured to that fact without putting it too plainly.

Narcissa moved towards her son and kissed his forehead. Once she moved away, she looked into his eyes and smiled. The gesture held a mixture of resignation, sadness, and hope. Draco understood the look without her needing to say anything.

"So you'll meet her?"

"Yes," his mother whispered. "If she makes you happy."

"She does," Draco declared and laughed softly. It seemed that just the thought of Astoria permeated his spirit in a positive way. He sighed in relief and added, "Thank you for giving it a chance."

"I'm trying," she replied, through a smirk. "I'll always try my best wherever your happiness is concerned." Her hands still remained on his face, and one thumb rubbed at his cheek.

Draco reached up and held one of her hands again. "And what of _your_ happiness, mother?"

" _You_ are my happiness," Narcissa stressed. Yet, Draco huffed and shook his head.

"No," Draco said, his voice became strong now, in an effort to act more of an adult and more of a man. Narcissa noticed this, but unlike the times he'd done so in the past, as a teenager trying to take on his family's humiliation and redemption, there was no anxiety or fear of failure behind his eyes. They bored into hers as he continued.

"You can't spend the rest of your life living it through me. That's not good for you, and it doesn't help me at all. You've holed yourself up in this old mansion, living in the past and probably feeling sorry for yourself." Narcissa gave him a stern look, but he held his hand up before she spoke. "If you'd at least _try_ to live your life again, it'd make it easier for me to live my life. Don't you see that? I can't be happy when I have to think about you here alone, doing nothing and going nowhere."

"I go places," she muttered, eyes downcast.

"To Andromeda's, you mean? I'm proud of you for reconciling with her, mum, but she's still family. _Try harder_." He squeezed her hands tight now, trying to impart some of his own renewed resourcefulness to her.

Narcissa suddenly realized that _this_ was the shift she'd always heard of and secretly dreaded. She no longer gave the lectures. Instead, Draco now lectured _her_. The corner of her lips quirked up at the thought, and she looked at her son with new eyes.

"I will try, Draco," she declared. He gave an emphatic nod to seal the compact, as it were. She laughed outright at the gesture, and Draco blushed, returning again to his role as her boy. As if to further reassert her continued status as his mother, she once again tsked at his hair, pushing it away from his eyes.

" _She_ 's the one who likes it long, isn't that right?" Narcissa watched him, eyebrows raised, already knowing the answer.

"Yeah," he admitted. "She also thinks I should grow a beard."

"Oh Merlin, _NO!_ "


	5. Chapter 5

It often surprised Narcissa how much her sister Andromeda retained from her upbringing. In their time apart, she'd painted this picture in her head of her wild, rebellious sister. She was "the blood traitor we do not speak of," in Bella's words, although Narcissa always noticed the redness in Bella's eyes whenever she said it. There was no glee in her hatred, as there so often was, but rather grief and fear.

When Narcissa allowed herself to imagine Andromeda, she'd always pictured her living in a Mudblood's mess, somewhere between lower middle class and abject poverty. As the years passed, this slandering myth continued until she could hardly remember the bright, polite, and utterly sophisticated young lady, who had left them so suddenly one night in order to carve out her own life.

Sitting in Andromeda's pristine parlor, Narcissa reminded herself of how easy it was to trick the mind into thinking whatever it wished, in order to cope with a loss or just cope with reality. How many times has she lied to herself for these reasons? Before Narcissa could trip down that rabbit hole, however, a small voice at her feet broke the silence.

"Auntie Cissa," the turquoise-haired boy lisped, "Help me build?" He raised his fists, each clutching onto small, square building blocks that Narcissa had never seen before. Her brow furrowed, and she smoothly slipped from the sofa and down onto the area rug with Teddy.

After crossing her legs and tucking them beneath her, Narcissa grabbed a few of the tiny building pieces and examined them. She held one piece between her forefinger and thumb, noticing the empty space underneath and the raised bumps on top.

"What are these, love?" She muttered towards Teddy. As a reply, he pulled the piece out of Narcissa's hand, took another piece, then snapped them together. He gave her a toothless grin from behind his handiwork.

"Oh, how fascinating," Narcissa said, slightly exaggerating her wonder for the small boy. She remembered how Draco's eyes would light up as a child, whenever his mother doted over his tiny accomplishments. Teddy's eyes lit just the same, although they also flicked through different colors in his happiness. Narcissa felt she'd never grow tired of noticing her Metamorphmagus nephew's natural talents.

"So what are we making?"

"Quidditch!"

Narcissa observed the single tower and beginning of a perimeter wall Teddy had already constructed on his own. She snapped a red piece into place, extending the wall, and Teddy added on to it until they established a steady rhythm, each contributing to a Quidditch stadium's creation.

After a few minutes, Andromeda entered the room, bearing a tray filled with tea things. Narcissa hummed in delight, while Teddy kept his eyes fixed on his small Quidditch pitch, singlemindedly continuing its construction.

"Thank Merlin, Andy. I'm famished."

"You and I both. I also brought some biscuits for my little builder." Teddy perked up at the word "biscuits" and immediately reached up to the side table to pick out a couple snacks for himself.

"Thank you, Granny," he mumbled around a biscuit.

"You're welcome," Andromeda replied, while ruffling his hair and kissing the top of his head.

Narcissa placed a couple more pieces on Teddy's wall, then returned to the couch, sitting near Andromeda and accepting the cup of tea handed to her. They both sat in silence for some time, sipping their tea and watching Teddy at play. Halfway through their cups, Andromeda began conversation.

"So, how did the dinner go with the future daughter-in-law?"

" _Don't_ call her that."

"Yes, it is a bit early, but really, how was she?"

Narcissa finished her cup of tea, placed it back on the tray, and smoothed her skirts before responding.

"Tolerable," she began. "Trying very hard to impress me. I almost felt bad for the girl. I could see her hands trembling every time she reached for her wine glass." Narcissa's smirk belied her words of sympathy. Andromeda only shook her head and laughed softly.

"You _are_ intimidating, sister. If not by reputation, than just by your presence."

"I'll take that compliment on my ever-present good looks and ignore the thought of _which_ of my reputations you have in mind."

"Why the reputation of the doting mother, of course."

Narcissa narrowed her eyes, while Andromeda tried to look innocent.

"She handled herself well, for the most part," Narcissa continued. "I can't say that I'm head over heels with the girl, but Draco could have done far worse, taking everything into consideration."

Her sister understood what she meant.

"She's a pureblood from a well-established family."

"How odd to hear you say such things. As if that ever mattered to you, Andy."

"That's true," Andromeda responded in all seriousness. "Those considerations never meant anything to me, especially after I met Ted, but I know it matters to you - however much you'd like to hide it."

Their eyes connected for a moment, until Narcissa shifted her gaze downwards. Andromeda watched as her sister seemed to consider something very important, her brow knit and her eyes staring beyond the weathered area rug. Finally, Narcissa let out a long sigh, closed her eyes, then extended herself on the couch, pulling her legs up and laying her head on her sister's lap.

Something momentous was coming, Andromeda thought. Ever since she was a girl, Narcissa always lounged against one of her older sisters whenever her internal monologue became too difficult to bear alone. Whether it was her or Bellatrix, they understood their little sister's body language and readied themselves with both comfort and advice if needed.

Andromeda placed her tea on the table and rested her hand on her sister's shoulder. Narcissa was staring up at the ceiling when she finally started speaking.

"It's so difficult sometimes. To find what to salvage from a life you thought was right, but which the world tells you is wrong. Indeed, not just the world, but which you yourself know to be wrong. Yet, it's still a part of you." Narcissa wearily rubbed her closed eyelids. "I'm not making any sense."

"I understand," Andromeda assured her, squeezing her shoulder. "You think I didn't experience the same thing when I ran off with Ted? Yes, I did something unforgivable in the eyes of my family, and I was disowned for it. There's never been a moment that I regretted it. Yet, I still passed on our names to my daughter. I still had to reconcile my past life with this new one I had created. There's no such thing as starting anew, especially when you come from a family like ours. It's always a part of you - neither good nor bad. It just _is_."

Narcissa nodded her head softly as her sister spoke, trying to understand and internalize her words.

"That back and forth in your mind will never go away. In fact, I was still dealing with that when I had to do what you just did - meet the new romantic partner."

 _The werewolf_ , Narcissa thought to herself, but she remained silent - both for Andromeda's sake and for that werewolf's son who still sat on the floor below them, puzzling a Quidditch pitch together.

"And how did that go?" Narcissa ventured.

"It was difficult," she said, as if still wondering whether that was the right word for it. "I always knew she'd bring home someone who'd surprise us, but he was…very unexpected. I didn't react initially in the best way possible. I remember lying awake at night, wondering if this was our parents' revenge from beyond the grave." Andromeda laughed humorlessly at the thought.

"What changed things?" A moment of silence hung in the air, then Andromeda released a breath.

"I'm not sure. Both Ted and I had a hard time with it, although she railed against me for the most part. She called me a hypocrite, of course. Then I tried to do what I wish our parents had done for me. I got to know him and understand who he was, where he came from, and all that. The rest sort of fell by the wayside after that. There were still aspects about him I didn't like, beyond his...physical condition. That was actually quite easy to get over, when I look back at that period. I had a much more difficult time forgiving him when he left her, while they were dating and while she was pregnant."

Narcissa tilted her head backwards, in order to look at her directly. "You never told me about that."

Andromeda looked at her sister, then down at Teddy. He was completely oblivious to their conversation, but Andromeda remained wary. She'd already decided on her own that Teddy would hear nothing but the best of his parents from herself. Yet, these memories still hurt her, and she felt that in her sister she found someone to vent them to. Nevertheless, she watched the back of the boy's turquoise head as she continued speaking.

"Yes, he had a hard time accepting her love, which is understandable after so many years without it. I realize that now. Every time he ran away though, we were the ones left here to pick up the pieces. When he did it during the pregnancy, I hated him. Being a mother, you can understand."

"I can't imagine what I would have done. Something awful, most likely."

Andromeda hummed in agreement, then began absentmindedly running her fingers through Narcissa's hair, still as silky as when they were girls and when she envied her younger sister's smooth locks as opposed to her curls.

"He returned, though. Harry had a hand in that, actually," Andromeda continued. "It was lovely, the short time they had together." Her voice diminished to a whisper now. She still twirled Narcissa's hair around her fingers, and her sister allowed her that time with her thoughts and memories.

Narcissa looked down at Teddy, now beginning construction on a second tower for his Quidditch pitch. She felt a twinge of regret that she hadn't been there for his mother's childhood, but she shook that away before it could take hold. She was here now, and that's what mattered. Andromeda repeatedly told her that, so she tried to reinforce it in her own mind.

Narcissa peeked above her and noticed Andy's glassy eyes. Narcissa pulled Andromeda's hand from her hair and kissed the back of it, trying to impart what little comfort she could. Andromeda looked down at her and offered a small smile, then squeezed her hand in response.

"All that to say," Andromeda began softly. "You'll find your way through the maze of our traditions and the world. It's a daily process. The important thing is that you try. You being here now?" Andromeda tightened her hold on her sister's hand. "That's good. Meeting Draco's new girlfriend? Also, good. You're on the right track, Cissa."

Andromeda lifted Narcissa's hand to her lips now and kissed it, just as her sister had done a moment ago.

Narcissa smiled at the contact then sighed to herself and wondered at the odd parallel between her sister's words and her son's - that insistence on trying. Each time she thought of it and how she'd do it, her mind would always revert to that old writing desk in her suite back home and the letter that laid upon it. She tried to bury the feeling, but it emerged again and again nonetheless.

Andromeda watched the changes in her sister's unguarded face. A thought seemed to flicker behind her eyes, one which vexed her. She went back to playing with Cissa's hair, hoping to soothe her, when a question popped into Andromeda's own head.

"I've been meaning to ask you, but I keep forgetting: Did you recently receive a letter from Hermione Granger?"

Andromeda immediately felt Narcissa's body tense. Her neck extended straight out, rather than relaxing against her thigh as it had been a moment before. Her eyes, which were unguarded and uncertain, now grew distant and icy.

"Yes. Didn't I tell you about it?"

"No, dear. You didn't."

"Oh, forgive me. It was just some nonsense anyways." Cissa dismissed it with a wave of her hand, hoping Andy would leave it at that.

It seemed that Andromeda would because she returned to playing with her hair, but instead of just losing herself to the small tugs on her scalp, Narcissa fidgeted.

"How did you know I'd received a letter from her?" She finally asked after a few moments.

"When I dropped off Teddy with Harry a few weekends past, she was there and mentioned that she wanted to write you."

"Did she give you the reason why?"

"Yes, she went into a bit more detail than you did regarding your visit to her shop." Andromeda looked down at her sister directly now and gave her a knowing gaze. Narcissa saw it and instantly sat up on the couch again, moving away from her sister. _There she goes_ , she thought, _Turning into a block of ice_. Andromeda didn't want to let this go for some reason though, so she went one step further. "Did she apologize?"

"Yes, she did. I accepted. That was the end of it."

"Then why is it still bothering you?"

"It isn't," she responded coldly.

"Cissa, please. I'm your sister. You may be a fantastic legilimiens, but that doesn't work on me. I know you." Narcissa took a deep breath in and out, then shifted her gaze down to her hands, seemingly mesmerized by her manicured fingernails. "What else happened?"

"She asked whether I would agree to tea with her, so that she might apologize in person. I declined."

"Why?"

" _Because_ ," Narcissa hissed and turned fully towards her sister. "What's the point? So the little hero can show her benevolence to someone from the losing side? I refuse to be a charity case. I accepted her apology. To do anything more would be both superfluous and pitiful."

Narcissa took a deep breath, but seemed to deflate as the air left her body. Andromeda shook her head and scooted closer to her sister. She gathered the sheet of blonde hair that had fallen between them and placed it behind Narcissa's shoulder. She then saw the shame and wounded pride that flitted across her features, and she understood her sister's earlier words even more now.

"You must stop looking at the world in these divisions between right and wrong, present and past, winners and losers. The war is over. Your family survived, thanks to you." Andromeda reached toward Narcissa's chin and turned her face towards herself. "You're not a bloody charity case, so stop acting like one. I can assure you that Hermione doesn't see you that way either. In fact, it's _you_ who'd be acting the benevolent one."

Narcissa raised an eyebrow. "And how's that?"

"Come, sister," Andromeda declared through a smile, trying to change the tenor of the conversation. "Surely as a member of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, you know what wonderful leverage can come from accepting an apology."

Narcissa's initially puzzled glance now grew into complete levity. Her smile stretched across her face and brightened her features.

"It seems you haven't forgotten all our ways, Andromeda."

"Never."

They both broke into laughter after that - Andromeda no longer able to hold the imperious look she borrowed from their mother, and Narcissa realizing how ridiculous her sister sounded, trying to act the Machiavellian part. She may be a Black and a Slytherin, but Andromeda was never unkind, not even in the slightest. In fact, her impersonation of their mother and their parents' ways here only reminded her of the many times she'd acted this way during their time at Hogwarts. Even as a child, Andromeda saw the farce behind their family's traditions.

Narcissa, on her end, still had a hard time reconciling her present feelings with her past duties, but she was thankful that Andromeda was here to help guide her some of the way. She understood it, no matter how much she made fun of it. Behind all that, there was a deeper connection and a knowledge that, perhaps somewhere hidden deep, something could be salvaged from the wreckage of their family tree. This renewed bond with her sister was just a start, she hoped.

"Truly, darling, Hermione only means well," Andromeda said, once their mirth subsided. "It would do you good to speak to her, if only because she's an interesting, intelligent witch who can fill up an afternoon with some chatter."

Narcissa nodded and smiled again at her sister.

"Does that mean you'll accept her invitation to tea?" Andromeda asked.

She watched Narcissa weigh the question in her head, analyzing it and coming up with the appropriate answer. Finally, Narcissa turned towards her with a sly grin on her face.

"...Something like that."

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 **A/N: This is somewhat of a bridge chapter. I just want to make sure I establish who this Narcissa is before we jump into CissaMione interactions. As always, thank you so much for all the reviews and follows! Please leave a comment and/or your thoughts on what Cissa's "Something like that" might mean. ;)**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Thank you for all the favorites, follows, and especially for the reviews, folks! I hope you all enjoy this chapter, and please let me know what you think. I'm still outlining where the story is going, so your feedback will just help feed the Muse. :)**

* * *

She felt Crookshanks land heavily on her back - the usual prelude before her alarm clock rang. She swept her curly mane aside and twisted around, gazing into her cat's knowing eyes as she continued to sit regally on top of her.

"I'm getting up," she murmured. "I'm getting up."

The alarm only sounded one bell before her hand waved and silenced it. Hermione threw her covers back and began her morning routine: padding barefoot to the kitchen in an old Cambridge shirt an ex-girlfriend had left behind, swishing her wand in a complicated charm of her own invention that set her coffee going and scrambled a couple eggs, heading to her bathroom where she showered, then quickly pairing her Muggle clothes together for another day of managing the shop.

In fitted jeans and an ivory-colored cable knit sweater, she returned to the kitchen, tucked into her eggs, and washed them down with a perfectly brewed coffee.

As she levitated her dirty dishes towards the sink and charmed them to begin cleaning themselves, an owl swooped in through her open window. It dropped a heavy envelope in front of her, then flew back out again.

She groaned, recognizing the owl and the Ministry of Magic's official seal on the parchment. Rather than break the seal, she flung it towards the pile that towered upon one of her couch's end tables. At the weight of this final straw, the tower fell to the floor, spilling numerous Ministry seals, inquiries from agencies, and interview requests upon the hardwood floor of her London flat.

Hermione gazed upon the pile now littering her floor, as if it embodied some mortal enemy or a disgusting pest. She didn't know whether to run from it or just eviscerate the whole lot. Instead, she grabbed her _Daily Prophet_ that'd arrived while she was in the shower, wished Crookshanks goodbye, and made her way out the door.

Once outside, she breathed in the slight chill in the air, winter still grasping to its last moments before spring arrived, and decided that she'd ride the tube instead of apparating today.

She barely made her train and had to fling herself through swiftly closing doors. Finding a spot between a middle-aged businessman and an old woman, she finally unfolded her _Daily Prophet_ and read it throughout her ride.

Years ago, Hermione found a way to charm the paper, so the pictures no longer moved. She looked like just another commuter, reading the morning paper. Rather than the new international war in the Middle East, however, Hermione's paper brought her up to speed on the education reforms still being enacted at Hogwarts and the Ministry's new efforts to properly assimilate werewolves and other "halfbreeds" into society. Hermione scoffed as she read articles on the latter subject.

 _Halfbreeds?_ She thought. _I guess some things don't change._

Her active mind critiqued the legislative amendments that Ministry officials seemed most interested in. Then, almost involuntarily, she began devising how _she_ would go about accomplishing these goals, finding the weak points in the arguments presented and strengthening them through various precedents she'd read about before in some old wizarding law books she'd discovered in a Diagon Alley secondhand shop.

Hermione stared off into space, trying to keep up with her thoughts and connect them to pragmatic results. When her eyes focused again, a dark-haired young man came into view. He wore a pair of big headphones, and as he bobbed his head to whatever beat blasted through the speakers, he smirked at Hermione, amused by her spaced out gaze.

Hermione smiled awkwardly and blushed, then thankfully realized her stop was next. She folded her paper, gathered her bag, and quickly pushed her way through to the platform.

She arrived at her shop within minutes and quickly began preparing to open for the day. The tube had taken longer than she remembered, but she was glad of the diversion.

The day passed swiftly from there. It was a Tuesday, so customers came in sparingly. For the most part, she was left to her own devices and took advantage of the free time to order new selections and upcoming titles.

Between figures and plans, however, her mind kept reverting back to that morning's _Daily Prophet_. She couldn't help but continue concocting possible programs in her head.

Perhaps a resource center not unlike what Muggles set up for the homeless or the underprivileged. Then, substantiate the value of such programs and the humanity of these othered populations in general through a new curriculum at Hogwarts. Maybe another section in the History of Magic course would suffice? An entire unit focused on minorities and otherwise maligned magical citizens from Muggleborns to werewolves to magical creatures.

 _Should_ these kinds of issues be institutionalized, though? To Hermione, it seemed as if that would be the only route toward deconstructing the systemic prejudice still plaguing wizarding society, even without the embodiment of those ignorant fears in someone like Tom Riddle. Educating young wizards seemed one of the best places to start when it came to making their world better. From there, various other rehabilitative, educational, and recreational programs could do as much work as possible in the rest of the population, from children to adults.

Her mind continued to wind through this rabbit trail, finding new solutions and further complications that set her critical thinking skills into a full tilt chase.

The bell at the front door rang, and her head snapped up. A father and his son walked in and headed toward the children's section. _Regulars_ , Hermione thought and smiled. It was small pleasures like repeat customers and literary conversations that brought her joy.

With that thought, she smiled to herself and rid her mind of the last calculations, plans, and goals that'd begun filling it just a moment ago. She walked over to the father-son duo and began chatting over their previous purchase, whether they enjoyed it or not, and what they planned on getting today. She gave a few recommendations, which they both appreciated and began searching for the books in question.

Hermione was crouched down looking for a particular book on the bottom shelves. She finally grabbed the title in question when she heard the front door ring again. She glanced over her shoulder, noticed a woman enter, and was about to return to helping her regulars when she almost fell over in her haste to do a double take.

It was _her_. Just like last time, she slid through the shelves as if she owned the place, but rather than head towards the children's section, she remained in the classic literature part of the store and seemed to be perusing through the titles.

Hermione watched her. From this distance, she seemed like just another customer, but knowing her as she did, Hermione spotted the difference between Narcissa Black and any other person who'd walk into her shop. She wore wizarding robes again, but beyond the wardrobe, her bearing immediately distinguished her from others. Her entire body seemed to flow in a slightly curved line that began at the top of her proud head and extended through her flung back shoulders, her relaxed arms, and her long legs, hidden beneath volumes of fabric obviously not purchased in your typical Diagon Alley shop.

"Is that the one you were referring to?" The man above her asked and pointed at the book Hermione still held in her hand. Startled, she looked up and remembered what she had been doing before.

"Yes," she replied, stood up again, and handed him the book. "If you'll excuse me for just a moment."

With that, Hermione began walking towards the witch in her shop. She was determined to do what she should've done when Ms. Black first visited the place. Tell her that her money was no good here and that she should get lost. No insults, no backhanded nonsense, just good, direct Gryffindor demands.

Once she reached her victim, Hermione stopped and readied herself for battle. Ms. Black was flipping through a copy of _To the Lighthouse_ and slowly turned toward Hermione. Although just a couple inches taller than Hermione, Ms. Black seemed to direct her blue eyes down the length of her straight aristocratic nose, and when she finally connected her gaze to Hermione's, the younger witch felt an eerie shudder run through her.

Her mouth felt dry suddenly.

"I don't think you're a house elf," Hermione finally croaked. Her eyes widened dramatically after she realized what she'd just said. Ms. Black merely looked at her quizzically and raised a blonde eyebrow.

"Is this another one of your _insults_ , Miss Granger?"

"No, I didn't- I mean-," Hermione sputtered. Ms. Black could barely hold back a supercilious grin, and once Hermione noticed that, she cleared her throat and started again. "What are you doing here, Ms. Black?"

The blonde witch looked down at the book in her hands, then gestured toward the store in general.

"Well, I am holding a book and browsing through the selection here. What does it look like I'm doing?"

"There are only Muggle books here," Hermione informed her in an undertone.

"And?" Ms. Black innocently asked.

Hermione gave her an unamused look. "We both know you're not interested in what _they_ have to write about."

At that, Narcissa Black turned her body entirely towards Hermione, so she could look at her square in the face. She tilted her head down slightly, drew in a deep breath, and recited, "Your face, my thane, is as a book where men may read strange matters. To beguile the time, look like the time. Bear welcome in your eye, your hand, your tongue." Then, she took one step closer to Hermione, penetrating the girl's personal space. "Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under it."

Hermione felt her jaw slacken as soon as Ms. Black began quoting Shakespeare word for word. Her voice didn't sound stilted at all as she spoke. In fact, the words seemed to flow as if she'd just thought of them herself. Hermione refused to allow herself to be impressed, though. Instead, she narrowed her eyes and lifted her chin.

"You _would_ know every line uttered by _that_ character."

Ms. Black merely smiled in response, which made her look less like the flower she was named after and more like the serpent of her House.

"I warn you, Miss Granger," she whispered venomously. "Do not presume to know me."

Hermione held her ground, but internally, she felt both intimidated and intrigued. She stared at the woman and noticed how her eyes didn't quite match her self-assured smile. They darted about, seeming to search Hermione's own features for where this conversation was going or where to take it next.

Thankfully, before she could fumble her way through another awkward attempt at one-upping this increasingly surprising woman, Hermione heard the man she'd been helping before.

"Hermione," he called from the register. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but could you just ring us up?" He smiled jovially at her, as if to mitigate the intrusion.

"Yes, of course," Hermione replied. She gave Ms. Black another look before walking to the register.

As she took care of her customer, her eyes continued moving behind the man in front of her and towards the woman standing in the classic literature section. Ms. Black stared back at her for a moment, then pushed her long hair from her face with one hand and continued browsing through the shelf.

"She's an odd bird, huh?"

Hermione turned back towards her customer when he spoke.

"Excuse me?"

"That woman," he said, although adding a nervous chuckle once he realized Hermione didn't seem particularly partial to his joke. "She gives me the creeps."

"Why?"

"Not sure. Her clothes, for one thing. I mean...what the bloody hell are they?" He looked behind him, towards Ms. Black again, but before his gaze could assess her entirely, Hermione interrupted him.

"They're very well-made," Hermione stated in an almost defensive tone. "We live in London, Mr. Daniels. There's lots of different kinds of people here, who dress and behave in ways unlike ourselves." _It's important not to judge them_ , she wanted to add, but from his look, she could tell that she may've already overstepped her bounds. Men never cared for a lecture when it came to criticizing their privilege of looking at and assessing women, especially when those women were foreign in more ways than one.

Hermione finished the transaction, slid him his book, and waited for him to leave. He seemed thunderstruck by her words and gave her an offended look before strutting out of her shop. _There goes another customer, another regular_ , Hermione thought. _First, the old woman attacked by an owl. Now, the seemingly nice father attacked by herself. How many more customers would she lose thanks to Narcissa Black?_

She was done with it. _This_ is why she kept her new Muggle life and her old wizarding life completely separate. She knew that they could not mix, at least not for her, and she'd learned that lesson very convincingly only last year. Hermione shook her head before allowing herself to remember _that_ whole mess.

Ms. Black still stood in the classic literature section. Wearily, Hermione began walking towards her, unsure what to do at this point and really just wondering why the hell everything had to be so complicated.

"Do you know of any good tea rooms in this area?"

Hermione's face snapped up. Ms. Black seemed to ask the question haphazardly, as she picked up another book and flipped through it, searching for lord knows what.

"Muggle or magic?"

"Either," Ms. Black shrugged, although Hermione noticed the short moment before she answered.

"There's one just a few minutes' walk away." Then, Hermione gave her specific directions, naming roads and explaining when to turn or which landmarks to look for. Ms. Black nodded as she listened, but as Hermione's directions became more complicated, her brow furrowed. She seemed to be losing track of where to go in Muggle London, or at least, that's what her face exhibited.

Hermione checked her watch, then wondered why in the hell she was about to offer this.

"I could walk you there if you'd like."

"No, that'll be alright," the pureblood witch answered. "I can get there on my own."

"Now that I think of it," Hermione said. "It's easy to get lost. The streets get a bit crowded around there."

Narcissa seemed to think for a moment, then she replaced the book she'd been holding and, as she did so, replied. "Well, if you insist, I suppose I wouldn't mind."

Hermione almost rolled her eyes, but tried to withhold her reaction to the woman's seemingly indomitable pride, even when it came to showing her how to get somewhere.

"Right," she finally said. "Let me just grab my things."

Hermione quickly walked to the back room, picked up her purse, and met the other witch at the front door. After putting a "Back in 20 minutes" sign on the glass and locking the place up behind her, Hermione began guiding Ms. Black towards the tea room. Incidentally, this was also the tea room she had planned on inviting her to if she had accepted her invitation. After their still embattled conversation so far today, Hermione scoffed at the thought and felt glad that it never happened. Yet, that thought faltered each time she slyly glanced at the woman keeping pace with her amongst the London crowds.

Just as Hermione predicted, they arrived at the tea room in less than ten minutes. She opened the door for Ms. Black, who walked briskly through and approached the host. Hermione hung back behind her, ready to bid her farewell once she put her name in.

"A table for two," the aristocratic witch demanded. "Preferably near those windows on the far end."

Hermione lunged forward. "Ms. Black, I need to get back."

The woman addressed looked squarely into Hermione's face and said nothing, then followed the host as he guided them towards their table. Hermione walked behind them almost as if she was hypnotized into doing so.

Once they arrived at their table, Ms. Black graciously took her seat, while Hermione stood next to her. She watched as the blonde witch removed her gloves, placed them to one side, and picked up the small menu. Ms. Black seemed oblivious to Hermione standing next to her and going through her own internal conflict.

Hermione thought of the shop and its "Back in 20 minutes" sign. Then, her gaze descended to the woman sitting at the small table, gazing at the menu. She watched her hands with their long fingers trace the tea room's offerings, then her eyes followed one of those hands as they pushed some platinum hair behind one ear. This gave her a view of the woman's profile.

Narcissa's brow seemed serene, not a furrow in its porcelain stillness. Her lips, however, were pursed, then finally Hermione noticed how her jaw seemed locked and stiff. She was obviously bracing herself for something, and Hermione realized she was waiting for her next move. Her eyes and brow looked assured, but her lips and jaw revealed a closely held question.

She should just walk out. She owed nothing to this woman, and her refusal of the seat opposite would launch a jab at Ms. Black's ego. The silence continued, as the blonde kept her eyes locked on the menu and the brunette debated with herself. Finally, Hermione noticed her just barely pull her bottom lip between her teeth and bite at it slightly. Hermione probably wouldn't have noticed this if it weren't for the fact that she did the same thing when she was nervous.

Hermione took her seat. As soon as she settled herself, she watched as Ms. Black gestured toward a waiter and ordered for them both.

Once the waiter left, Hermione noticed her companion gaze around her, finally taking the room in after their whirlwind entrance. Hermione had enjoyed afternoon tea here a few times before, when she had the leisure time to fit it in. She relished the room's delicate combination of the old and new. The furnishings had obviously seen many years of service, and the hardwood floors still retained the large iron nails that surely some carpenter in the nineteenth century had used.

The tea sets, however, were modern almost to a fault. Complete with timers for when the leaves had steeped long enough, although Ms. Black had thankfully not chosen one of those teas. The other patrons were a healthy mix of businessmen and bohemians - the former perhaps taking a meeting and the latter either reading a book or just gazing out onto the busy London sidewalks.

"This is...quaint," Narcissa declared, after finishing her perusal of the slightly frayed tablecloths, the creaking wooden chairs, and the Muggles around her.

Hermione decided to push past the obvious euphemism. "It first opened during the Victorian era actually, and it still retains a lot of the design." At this point, Hermione leaned forward and pointed Narcissa's gaze towards the ironwork bordering the windows above them. "Notice the swooping swirls in the iron? That's drawing from the art nouveau craze at the turn of the century. You don't usually see that in London anymore."

Narcissa looked up, and Hermione watched as her eyes seemed to follow the curves of iron. The younger witch took this moment to really get a read on the woman sitting across from her. The tenseness in her jaw and lips was no longer present, but she still sat straight as an arrow, her back nowhere near the chair itself. As she gazed upon the windows, one eyebrow seemed to involuntarily rise.

Hermione followed these small gestures and postures as if following the sentences of a book, ebbing and flowing with the words she read and the words she saw coming. All the times Hermione had seen her before, Narcissa Black wore a hardened look. Back before the final battle, Harry liked to tease Malfoy about how his mother's features looked as if she smelt something awful. Looking at the woman now, Hermione cringed at the memory and its dissonance from the smooth serenity she was faced with.

Narcissa's gaze finally returned to Hermione, and she caught her glance that lingered on her own face. Hermione looked down immediately, which kept her from seeing the discomfited look that flashed across those same serene features she had just been admiring.

As if on cue, the waiter returned with their tea, and both women quickly took refuge behind their cups. After a few sips, Hermione began to wonder whether it would be alright to bring up why she had wanted to invite Ms. Black to this tea room a few weeks ago. Perhaps, that was why Narcissa Black had returned to her bookshop? Maybe, against the odds, she regretted her original response?

Hermione placed her cup down gently and began. "Ms. Black, I had wanted to speak to you about..." She hesitates for a moment, suddenly realizing that she hadn't properly braced herself for confronting this woman about their shared past so suddenly in the middle of a Muggle tea room. Like the Gryffindor and Golden Trio alum she was, however, Hermione soldiered through. "To speak to you about your first visit to my shop and how I -"

"I do not wish to discuss that." Ms. Black interrupts Hermione in a tone that strikingly reminded her of the same tone she used when she'd told Harry and Ron to put their wands away, years ago in Madam Malkin's shop.

Hermione's mouth shut like a clam, and she felt her face quickly reddening. Minutes passed, and she felt a distinct desire to pick up her bag and walk out, although she didn't know if that desire came from her embarrassment or from feeling insulted. Yet again, this woman kept her from expressing herself as she wished, and she wasn't used to that. Hermione began scrunching up the small napkin on her lap and leaning forward for her bag, when Ms. Black spoke again.

"How is Mr. Potter?" She took another sip of her tea, as if this question coming from her weren't at all extraordinary.

Hermione's other movements stopped immediately, and she felt herself drown in that irresistible bastion of British propriety: small talk over afternoon tea.

"He's fine, finishing up training to be an Auror now. I'm pretty sure he should be out in the field soon if all goes according to plan. He's also still with Ginny Weasley, although she's travelling with her Quidditch team quite a bit." As Hermione spoke, Narcissa seemed to listen intently, interested in the hero's life. "He took over Grimmauld Place, so he's living there now."

"I always hated that house."

Hermione chuckled. "Did _anyone_ like that house?"

Narcissa took a moment to ponder her question, and Hermione could almost follow her thoughts that traced each branch of the family tapestry.

"Besides Aunt Walburga, I really don't think so. Perhaps Reggie tolerated it well enough, but I wouldn't say he ever _liked_ it. It was always awful and uninviting."

"I thought that was just a result of its neglect."

She shook her head. "I can assure you it was never a welcoming place. There's a difference between traditional and outdated. Auntie's home was the latter."

"Yes, I can see that. Her portrait still hangs on the wall. She's...quite a piece of work."

Narcissa smirked. "That's perhaps the best way of putting it, Miss Granger."

"Kreacher's still there. He's always spoken fondly of you."

Narcissa hummed into her tea, as she brought it up to her lips. At her reaction, Hermione suddenly realized that bringing up Kreacher may've been the same as bringing up the night at Malfoy Manor. Once again, she was calling attention to Narcissa's actions during the war. Indeed, the kindness of "Miss Cissy," as Kreacher liked to call her, to the old house elf had brought about the events at the Ministry and Sirius's death.

Rather than storm out because of this woman's refusal to speak of such things, as she had wanted to just a few minutes before, Hermione felt an opposite reaction. She wanted to smooth things over.

"How is Malfoy?" Hermione asked, then quickly added, "Draco."

"He's doing well for himself. Like Mr. Potter, he's gaining a position in the Ministry after years of hard work. He has a flat here in London, but I still see him often." Ms. Black paused and seemed to deliberate upon something for a moment, then she began speaking again. "He also has a girlfriend now."

"Really? Would I know her?"

"Perhaps. Astoria Greengrass."

"Is she related to Daphne?"

"Yes, Astoria is her younger sister."

"Oh," Hermione looked back through her memories of Hogwarts. "I don't remember Astoria, but Daphne was one of the few Slytherin girls who didn't take an active stance against me. Unlike Pansy Parkinson, for instance."

At that name, Ms. Black's nose and lips scrunched into each other and morphed into the expression that Harry had always remarked upon.

"Looks like we have a shared distaste for Pansy." Hermione chuckled.

"Yes, we do." Narcissa's lips quirked up slightly at her words.

Hermione's cup sat empty in front of her. She'd obviously been sipping hastily, although she couldn't remember actually doing so. The woman opposite her grasped the handle of their shared teapot, and leaning only slightly over, refilled Hermione's cup. Hermione softly whispered her thanks and took a tentative sip, wondering where the conversation would go from here.

"And what of you, Miss Granger?" Ms. Black asked. "I am sure you could have easily gained a position in the Ministry, and yet you…" She seemed to search about for the right words. "...decided to live and work amongst Muggles. Why is that?"

The question took Hermione aback somewhat. She knew that this woman was probably just trying to make small talk, but the "Why?" question from various wizards and witches had become a thorn in her side. She _could_ just steal Ms. Black's modus operandi and answer with a "I do not wish to discuss that." That wasn't her, though. She'd explained this already a thousand times, so why not one more?

"I wanted to do something different. Our world after the war often became too stifling and claustrophobic for me. As you imply, my working in the Ministry seemed a foregone conclusion for everyone, including my closest friends. I didn't know if that was what I wanted, though."

"And you still feel the same way now?"

Hermione thought about this for a moment. Although she'd had to explain her actions to so many, she hadn't needed to do that in a few years. Most of the wizards and witches around her gave up after the first couple years, and now, most people stopped asking her what she wanted and why. Ms. Black's question made her realize this.

Also, for some reason, it triggered her memory back to that very morning - both to the owl from the Ministry and the _Daily Prophet_ article that distracted and intrigued her mind throughout the first half of the day.

Hermione closed herself to these thoughts and answered. "Yes, I do. I'm happy where I currently am."

Ms. Black gazed at her penetratingly over the top of her cup, and Hermione felt almost frozen under the press of her blue eyes. She flinched and looked downward to reach for her own cup.

"It just seems odd," Hermione heard the woman say.

"Why is that?" She replied and finally returned Ms. Black's gaze.

She shrugged slightly and answered. "Wars do not end with the final battle, Miss Granger."

Editorial headlines suddenly flashed in Hermione's head. "How the First War led to the Second." "The Rise of Lucius Malfoy." "Death Eaters Amongst Us: The Ministry of Magic's Big Post-War Problem." All these articles and more warned their readers about how disastrously the Ministry had dropped the ball after the first war against Voldemort. It was a popular subject in the contemporary wizarding zeitgeist, but Hermione was nonetheless intrigued to hear it coming from this woman, especially since she wasn't sure how to take it. Was Ms. Black referring to the work Hermione herself and her allies had to do _now_? Or was she referring to the tireless and - if one accepted the _Daily Prophet_ 's version of events - eventually successful work the Malfoy family had accomplished in the years after Voldemort's fall and before his eventual resurrection?

Perhaps that's what intrigued Hermione the most about the witch sitting across from her. For indeed, she _was_ intrigued. Their meeting at the bookshop earlier may've got off to a rocky start, but this conversation had developed into something interesting. As Hermione's internal questions ringed in her mind, she was struck by the idea that perhaps both were true. This witch was a product of a successful past and a still indeterminate present. Yes, the Boy Who Lived had exonerated her and her son, but who really accepted that?

She had mentioned Draco's having to work hard for his position in the Ministry, and Hermione realized that much more than a mother's pride lied behind that statement. Aside from Draco, she wondered what Narcissa Black, formerly Malfoy, went through on a daily basis since the end of the war. On the outside, she looked as pristine and polished as she did during the war, but then Hermione remembered her tenseness while she waited for her to take a seat at the table. It all made her wonder.

"You're right, Ms. Black," Hermione said, after these thoughts ran away with her. "I suppose I'm still trying to figure out how to navigate all of it. It's a process."

Understanding - and perhaps even surprise - sparkled in the blonde witch's blue eyes, and she nodded slowly after Hermione's words. Her gaze locked onto Hermione's once more, just as it had before, but instead of bowing under the look, Hermione returned it and noticed how the other witch seemed to be looking for something.

She blinked, and the moment was lost.

"I must be going then," Ms. Black declared softly before placing her napkin on the table and slowly rising to her feet. She turned to leave a few pound notes on the table. Hermione was about to protest, but was kept from doing so by Narcissa's forbidding look.

"I should do the same," and Hermione, less gracefully and more rapidly, rose up to follow her out the door.

Once out in the street, Hermione turned to speak to Ms. Black and noticed her eyes already resting upon her. Hermione gulped dryly.

"Let me just show you a good apparition point."

With that, Hermione led her around the corner and towards a cramped alleyway between two buildings that seemed to be either closed or swiftly moving towards foreclosure. They both stopped in the middle of the alleyway, and Hermione had no idea what to say at this point.

Ms. Black extended her hand, and after a moment, Hermione took it. She felt the woman's delicate palm and long fingers reach out and tightly wrap around hers. For a moment, Hermione wondered whether she had somehow caught her mid-apparition, but her firm feet on the ground belied the swooping feeling in her stomach.

"Thank you, Miss Granger," said this pureblood witch who'd stolen her afternoon. She seemed about to say something more, but instead, she merely nodded and released the Muggleborn's hand. Then, the soft crack of apparition marked her final goodbye.

Hermione's hand remained outstretched even after she'd gone. She flexed her fingers spasmodically and tried to shake the indelible imprint Narcissa Black's touch had left behind.


	7. Chapter 7

_Ms. Black,_

 _I wanted to thank you for tea yesterday, and with that in mind, I've sent a book along with this note. It's the novel I noticed you looking at when you were perusing the shelves. I think you'd enjoy it._

 _Regards,_

 _Hermione Granger_

Narcissa stared at the book dropped onto her parlor's couch by a messy-feathered owl just a moment ago. To look at Narcissa's face, one would think the package contained a bomb rather than an unassuming book. She slowly moved towards it and began unwrapping the twine and brown paper.

She held _To the Lighthouse_ in her hands. Miss Granger had a good eye because this copy _had_ interested her, thanks to the muted scene on the cover. A beach and its inhabitants seemed to frolic in the foreground, while a lighthouse stood tall in the distance, radiating from its place on a bit of land jutting out from the shore. It reminded her so much of the beach days she'd enjoyed when she was young.

During the school year, her parents took up their place in London for the season, as the purebloods still liked calling it. The girls were at Hogwarts, of course. When summer came, however, the whole family would retreat to the seashore and the home she currently stood in. Not only was this their ancestral home, but it possessed the added benefit of existing near England's oldest magical ruins and near the sea. As a girl, the latter fact counted as a major plus, and it's these memories Narcissa continually returns to when she tries to salvage some positivity from her past.

She remembers her mother chiding Andromeda when she came home with a new set of freckles covering her shoulders. Bellatrix always returned in the evenings with scraped hands and knees - the effect of trying to climb the ruins of Tintagel or translating newly discovered runes in Merlin's cave. Narcissa's worst displays were a slightly reddened nose from the sun or, on those especially long days, her blonde hair felt dry and brittle. While her house elf Whishee tsk-ed Narcissa's foolishness during a painful detangling session, Narcissa would just smile to herself and inhale that perfect smell of sea salt still clinging to her long hair. She even recalled pulling a few strands into her mouth and sucking the salt off with her tongue. On those nights, she felt like a crazed sea witch or a mermaid walking with human legs for only a limited time. Until September arrived.

She smiled down onto the book - its cover matted and slightly rough in her hands, almost like her young, sea-soaked hair - and wondered how this Muggle story would compare to her own memories.

* * *

The British Wizarding Library's entrance shared many similarities with the Ministry of Magic. Sensors at the door and library cards may work for Muggles, but wizarding libraries held more than just information. They held the amassed secrets of a world meant to remain undercover.

After identifying themselves, a witch or wizard would then descend underground, beneath London's vast tunnels and tube system, then finally reach the library itself. The main reading room's charmed glass dome and subsequent airiness belied its real location. Indeed, during the day, "natural" light often sufficed for the readers and researchers spread out across the tables, which all radiated in concentric circles from the references desk, the main hub of the library. Beyond these concentric circles lied rows and rows of books that seemed to stretch out infinitely. A device not unlike the Goblin trolleys used in Gringotts's caves shot visitors out into the stacks and swiftly returned them to the main area.

The library ran like a well-oiled machine. Although the trolleys zoomed in and out from the main reading room, the building remained silent due to some complicated charmwork. The swish of pages turning and the scratch of quills writing were the only sounds to be heard.

Hermione sat at one of the reading room tables, which was almost covered with the large tomes she'd amassed over the course of the day. For the most part, the books seemed focused upon magical creatures and their place in the wizarding world. Each selection approached the issue from a different angle - historical, anthropological, social, theoretical, and some even drew comparisons between magical societal issues and Muggle issues like imperialism, slavery, and segregation. She furiously took notes, trying to glean the most she could for reasons she didn't dare admit to herself.

After multiple days and almost a full weekend of pondering the questions brought up in that damn copy of the _Daily Prophet_ , she'd finally caved in to her mind's continual circling around the issue, decided to follow her instincts, and retreat to the library, where she always knew she could work out a problem.

She gleaned the last bits of information she could from the last book in her pile, then shut it with a dull thud. Raising her eyes up from her parchment, she felt her neck crack, and she slowly drew circles with her head, trying to work out the kinks. She organized the books in two piles: those she planned on checking out and those she would leave behind. She carried the semi-large stack of the latter back towards the carts at the end of each library stack.

Once she heaved them all onto the return cart, Hermione noticed another battered book already lying there. Its black leather cover was embossed with gold lettering, which read _Sacred Twenty-Eight: The Pureblood Elite of Great Britain_. For a moment, Hermione wondered how this book had slipped through her research. Many of the books she'd skimmed through that morning touched upon the difficulties magical creatures had gaining agency in a government practically run by bigoted purebloods.

She picked up the tome and brought it back with her to her table. She sat and opened it to its first pages. The introduction oozed with pro-purity rhetoric. Words like "dynasty" and "tradition" were repeated throughout, while discussions of "tainted" blood were kept to a minimum in order to impart a strong effect when finally stated. Mudbloods weren't mentioned, but through the absence of that discussion, Hermione felt a chill run down her spine. They didn't deserve a place in this book, just as they didn't deserve one in this society. She grimaced and tore through the rest of the Introduction, hardly reading the words but still gleaning the general tone.

The chapters after that broke apart into each of the twenty-eight families. Hermione ran her finger down the Table of Contents.

 _Abbott_. Hermione immediately thought of Hannah Abbott, and the ire she'd felt just a moment ago almost completely dissipated. She remembered the Hufflepuff girl who'd joined them in Dumbledore's Army, but had to miss a year at Hogwarts because her mother was murdered by Death Eaters. Their world wasn't so cut and dry. This book didn't hold an index to her enemies. Hermione's forearm twitched slightly at the thought, but she merely shook her head and kept perusing.

 _Avery_. Here we are. A family of known Death Eaters and prejudiced purebloods for generations. Hermione's image of Hannah wavered underneath the bloody weight of the Avery family name. She continued.

 _Black_. Her finger immediately stopped sliding down the page. Unlike Abbott and Avery, Black produced a riot of discordant memories and feelings. Hermione heard Sirius's self-assured laugh in her head, but then that laugh quickly morphed into Bellatrix's unhinged cackle. She saw Andromeda playing with Teddy in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place, then she remembered tea with Narcissa and how she'd leaned over to pour her a cup. Rather than continue skimming through the Table of Contents, Hermione noted the page number for the Black family chapter and turned to it.

 _The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black_ , the chapter title read. Also on the title page, their family motto "Toujurs Pur" and their family crest filled the first half, while a large family photograph filled the second half.

The caption beneath the photograph read, "Final generation of the Black family, 1969." If it weren't for the subjects' blinking eyes and signs of breathing, Hermione would've taken the photograph for a Muggle one rather than a moving wizarding picture. Each member of the final generation posed stoically and, besides Regulus moving his hand in and out of his pocket, remained eerily still.

In the center of the gathering, the matriarchs sat on wingback chairs. Hermione recognized one of them immediately. The scornful face of Walburga Black stared nastily back toward the photographer. The woman to her left, however, made Hermione start. With long blonde hair and a slightly rounded face, Druella Black stood out from the rest of the photograph. She possessed neither the angular facial features nor the dark hair of the family she'd married into. Hermione felt as if she were looking at another version of Narcissa.

Walburga and Druella's husbands stood behind them, both sporting the same proud and forbidding look. Their children fanned out from the center. Sirius and Regulus stood to the right of their mother, wearing dress robes that resembled a Muggle tuxedo in everything but the cut. While everyone else's chins were slightly upturned, Sirius's chin remained mischievously down, and when Hermione looked closely, she noticed a slight smirk beginning. Regulus stood close beside him, as if he were physically attached to his older brother.

On the opposite side, the three sisters stood in robes as elegant as any Hermione had ever seen at a Ministry ball. Unlike their male cousins, the girls were already well into their teenaged years and boasted the incredible good looks that they were still known for. Hermione leaned even further down.

Bellatrix at eighteen was stunning in every way. Her physical demeanor demanded attention, and her gaze was both seductive and self-assured. She also had one hand curved around Andromeda's waist. Like Sirius and Regulus's proximity, these two seemed carved into one another. Andromeda's resemblance to her elder sister only made this connection more pronounced. She possessed a softened, more approachable attraction than her sister. Bellatrix would burn, Andromeda would warm. Their younger sister, it seemed, would freeze.

Narcissa stood with a seemingly impossible posture, ramrod straight and solid. Hermione compared this pose to the more curved, languid stance she'd noticed when last she saw the blonde witch, and she realized that young Narcissa was probably still trying to decide how best to represent her family. While her sisters were already women, Narcissa seemed to still hold on to the last vestiges of girlhood - against her will, if her body language was anything to go by. Yet, already, there were marked differences between herself and her sisters.

Standing next to her mother, it became easy to see where Narcissa's fair coloring came from. She still possessed the strong features and expressions of the rest of the family, but her mother's Rosier blood helped smooth all that over, giving her an air that was utterly refined and feminine.

Hermione kept gazing at this young girl, closer to her age in 1969 than she was now in 2002. She wondered what her favorite subjects at Hogwarts were and whether she was already betrothed to Lucius Malfoy. Did she know that one sister would soon leave to marry a Muggleborn and the other would leave to serve a Dark Lord? She would be left behind, caught between two extremes. Hermione felt herself involuntarily sympathizing with a girl she didn't even know.

She quickly slammed the book shut and began picking up her things. She slid the check-out pile of books towards her and placed them in her tote bag. For a moment, her hand darted towards the book she'd just been perusing, but Hermione ultimately shook her head and left the book on the table. There was nothing in there to really help her research on magical creatures and their welfare.

She'd already bitten off more than was safe in researching wizarding topics in the first place. At the checkout desk, the librarian shuffled through the books she'd decided on taking. Hermione continued wondering why she was even doing all this and also why she kept looking back towards her table.

"Would you...hold on that for just one moment?"

Hermione quickly ran back to the table and snatched up the book she'd been about to leave behind. When she returned to the checkout desk, the librarian gave her a curious look, which only grew after she noticed the title. Hermione only offered a tight-lipped smile in response.

Once again, she placed all the checked out books in her tote bag, nodded farewell to the librarian, and made her way back up to the London streets. The _Sacred Twenty-Eight_ book seemed to burn her hip through her tote bag. Rather than ask herself why she decided to run back and get it, Hermione instead guided her mind towards easier subjects: synthesizing the ideas she'd come across during her day of research and planning the remainder of the day.

This train of thought kept her occupied throughout her walk home. After arriving at her apartment, she dropped the heavy tote bag with a sigh of relief and massaged the knot that had formed on her shoulder during the short walk with such a heavy bag. She then caught sight of Crookshanks, lying on the ground beneath the window, his tail smoothly moving back and forth and his face focused upward. Hermione followed his gaze and finally noticed the eagle owl perched on her window sill. Hermione recognized it immediately and almost fell over her bag of books in her haste to reach the owl.

She pulled the piece of folded parchment from the owl's leg, and she smiled to herself when the owl remained standing on the ledge, waiting for her to read and respond.

 _Miss Granger,_

 _I thank you for sending me the novel. I completed it yesterday evening, and I will admit to enjoying it. I would be interested in any other reading suggestions you may have that run along a similar vein._

 _Perhaps you would like to meet to discuss a few recommendations, as well as_ To the Lighthouse _? My days are often busy, but I am sure I could spare an hour or two. My owl awaits your reply._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Narcissa Black_

Hermione laughed in victory. Sending her the novel was partly a shot in the dark and partly a farewell gift. In the week since she'd sent the package, she'd done a rather good job of keeping her mind off it. Unlike the first letter sent to Narcissa Black, Hermione tried not to agonize over this one.

Each time she remembered her afternoon tea with Ms. Black, her mind provided a different version of events. No matter how she looked at it, though, it felt like an apology and a truce on the seemingly indomitable pureblood's part. From her circuitous means of getting Hermione to the tea room to her chosen subjects of conversation, Hermione couldn't help but see a white flag waving across the whole scene.

By sending her the novel, Hermione hoped to ascertain whether the communication ended there or if she'd be interested in continuing...something. It was usually at this point in her thoughts that Hermione's conclusions fell flat. Where was this going? And what did Narcissa Black stand to gain from it? When Hermione allowed her pride to get the better of her, what did _she_ stand to gain? Befriending a former Death Eater's ex-wife wasn't exactly the best way to re-forge connections with her wizarding roots. She wondered whether the defunct Malfoy family still possessed any connections, and if they did, Hermione suspected that those connections were mostly ones they'd wish to forget.

No, there was nothing in this for herself, Hermione admitted, at least nothing to make her social standing better. It might even make it worse. At that thought, Hermione got oddly defensive. She and her friends and allies had fought for a better world, where everyone would be treated equally. It wouldn't do to trade one social group for another when it came to widespread prejudice and judgement. She knew all too well what it felt like to be on the receiving end of that, and she wouldn't wish it on her worst enemy.

Narcissa wasn't her worst enemy. She thought back to that first run-in with her in the bookshop and felt foolish. During the war, they were on two different sides, and as her final actions revealed, Narcissa's "side" was her family - nothing or no one else. Ron counted this as a mark against her, claiming that she acted in her own self-interest and thus was more a coward than anything else. Hermione understood his stance, but nonetheless disagreed with it. Defending her family placed her somewhere between the dark and light, and in that limbo, Hermione doubted that she found many allies.

On that night in Malfoy Manor, they all got caught in the crossfire. She still wanted to talk to Ms. Black about all of it because she knew that would offer her some closure and may even impart some to the pureblood witch as well, but she decided that she was willing to wait for it.

Perhaps that's what set her heart beating rapidly when she saw the eagle owl and read its message: the possibility of closure and of finally shutting the door on all that mess from the war. Hermione trusted that instinct and quickly found a spare piece of parchment and a quill.

 _Ms. Black,_

 _I'm so glad to receive your note and to hear that you liked the novel. I'd of course love to discuss it further. I close the shop on Sundays, so how about we meet Sunday afternoon at Regent's Park?_

 _We can rendezvous at the tube station entrance for the park itself at about 2 o'clock if that works for you._

 _Hermione_

Before she could overthink it, Hermione attached her short note to the owl's leg, gave it a treat with a muttered, "I'm sure you have much better ones where you come from," and watched as it flew away.

Hermione then turned towards Crookshanks, who still sat on the floor and now gave her the curious look he'd initially been directing towards the visiting owl. Hermione chuckled at her pet and tried not to meet his overinquisitive gaze.

She made her way back to the bag of books she'd dropped upon her entrance and began pulling each text out. Crookshanks watched her and noticed the smile plastered across her face. He knew books made her excited, but this seemed like excitement of a different type.

* * *

Narcissa stood outside what she suspected was the tube station Granger had referenced in her message. As Muggles passed her, walking into the park for the afternoon, she wondered for the hundredth time why she was doing this.

The tea should've been enough. In her own way, she apologized for her initial response and made an attempt at normal conversation with a Muggleborn witch, who represented everything her family once fought against. She'd gone above and beyond what was required of her as a postwar pureblood witch.

Andromeda had been right when she mentioned that an afternoon with the intelligent girl wouldn't be a wasted one. While Narcissa scoffed at the thought initially, she was surprised by their conversation. Rather than a victorious war hero, she was met instead with a young girl who seemed almost as aimless as she felt. Narcissa wondered at this and felt an eerie sense of familiarity when Granger described the difficulties of moving forward after the war. They may've fought for two different halfbloods, but they were both dealing with the same aftermath. This intrigued Narcissa more than she'd like to admit.

Then, that damned book came. Of course, Narcissa read it. She had nothing else better to do. She was shocked, however, by how much its content and characters resonated with her. The family issues echoed so many that she herself had experienced, and she'd already told Andromeda to read it as soon as possible. Furthermore, it seemed to take place after a Muggle war, during which numerous members of the family died. Narcissa tried to escape the personal reflections, but they filtered into her spirit all the same.

Narcissa's knowledge of Muggle history was rudimentary at best, but she figured that Granger may know more. Thus, an informational query inspired her message to Granger. She wanted to learn more about the novel and about the time from which it sprang.

Muggles continued to shuffle around her as she waited, many of them giving her robes curious looks. If these meetings kept up, she may have to actually purchase some Muggle clothes. Narcissa smiled at the ridiculous thought, both of this...whatever it was...with Granger continuing and of her in Muggle clothing.

Finally, after a few more minutes had passed, Narcissa spotted Granger walking up from the tube station. She looked around for a moment then finally caught Narcissa amidst the crowd. She instantly grinned and waved. Narcissa remained standing and waiting with an impatient look on her face.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Black," Hermione said, once she reached Narcissa. "I hope I haven't kept you waiting too long."

" _You're_ the one who set the time, Miss Granger."

"Yes, I know. Sorry. Sometimes the tube isn't on schedule, especially during the weekend."

"I suppose you can't help it," Narcissa muttered. Hermione blushed slightly at the comment, but seemed to steel herself against the embarrassment.

"Shall we go in?" Hermione began walking, and Narcissa followed. Both wondered why they hadn't come up with some last minute excuse to get out of this farce.

* * *

 **A/N: aaaaand here...we...go! :) Please leave reviews, comments, hopes and dreams for the future. lol. Thanks for the responses so far!**


	8. Chapter 8

Narcissa was wrong. This wasn't a farce or even some obligation. Her afternoon with Miss Granger at the park was, at the very least, tolerable and, when she dared to admit it, even enjoyable at times.

They began as they had the last time they'd met for an afternoon. There were snide remarks bandied back and forth. Narcissa wouldn't let Granger forget her tardiness, while the Muggleborn replied with thinly veiled comments that reminded Narcissa that _she_ had been the one to ask for a meeting. If she wanted to leave, then she was more than welcome to do so. Yet, both women kept walking together into the park and through the avenues of finely manicured gardens.

From that uncomfortable beginning, they shifted into neutral small talk – what they'd been doing since they last met, plans for the week ahead, the surprisingly fine weather that day. Narcissa embellished most of her answers, of course. This girl didn't need to know that she spent her days walking the grounds, then lounging in the library, then rereading parts of old books she'd read dozens of times before, then drinking a glass (and lately multiple glasses) of wine by the fire and feeling a bit sorry for herself before finally succumbing to sleep at some ungodly hour.

To Miss Granger, she must seem like a busy socialite, what she'd always been and planned on becoming again. Her mind balked at the thought. Here she was, taking a stroll through a Muggle park with Hermione Granger instead. It must be obvious that she no longer had a choice regarding where to be and with whom.

Then finally, the two women sat on one of the benches overlooking a small lake and began discussing _To the Lighthouse_. Narcissa watched as Granger's eyebrows jumped up in surprise when she made her first comment regarding the novel's form and style. Yes, there it was – the telltale sign that revealed to her how little the person across from her expected from her mind. She'd grown used to the expression over the years. Whenever Lucius wandered away from her at Ministry functions, she would often surprise an official with her thoughts on the current political question being discussed. Lucius never minded it. In fact, he had often come to her for advice and a clear path forward when he couldn't find a way through the bureaucratic red tape.

Miss Granger's expression, however, quickly changed. Rather than ridicule and mild disgust that a pureblood woman held an opinion, she was instead met with excitement. The girl looked as if she'd just found the formula for translating a rune that continued to evade her. When Narcissa finished speaking, there was a moment of silent awe on Granger's part and smug contentment on Narcissa's. Then, Miss Granger smiled and launched into her own thoughts on the novel and her response to Narcissa's comments.

They discussed which characters resonated with them the most and which scenes really lifted off the page. Hermione had brought her copy with her, and Narcissa smiled to herself when she pulled it out of her bag. It was covered in underlines and dogeared pages.

"Were you reading this book or interrogating it, Miss Granger?"

Hermione chuckled. "You obviously don't know me well enough, Ms. Black. I interrogate _every_ book I read."

Narcissa could believe that. As she watched the girl hunched over her copy, looking for a particular scene she had just referenced, she recalled how often Draco returned from school, complaining that the Mudblood Granger girl had once again bested him in his classes. Watching the girl now, Narcissa understood how Granger had gained her reputation as "the brightest witch of her age." Some people were gifted with intelligence and barely had to lift a finger in order to show their brilliance. Miss Granger probably had some of this in her, but beyond that, there was a voracious desire to learn and – perhaps most importantly – to prove herself.

Narcissa had grown up knowing her place and her stature in their world. She didn't have to prove anything when she went to Hogwarts. She was a Black, a pureblood, a Slytherin, and beautiful. These were facts that she luxuriated in and took advantage of when necessary. When she was young, this made life a breeze. She hardly needed to try and already the world was ordered as it should be.

Now, as a woman with all her roles behind her – daughter, sister, wife, and mother – she wondered what lied beneath the facts she'd lived behind. She continued to watch the young girl next to her, flipping through pages and pushing back her mess of a mane when it got in the way. Wasn't that what the novel was _really_ about and why it resonated with her so strongly? Beyond the family and the war and the loss, there sat a solitary maternal figure in the center, barely understood or understanding and still searching for her own identity.

Narcissa felt a knot settle in the back of her throat, and she quickly looked off in the opposite direction. She focused on a small child, feeding a bird with his lunch leftovers. Thankfully, Granger remained lost in the words on the page. Narcissa felt her hands trembling, and she gnawed at her lip slightly.

"Here it is!"

Narcissa sensed Granger turn fully towards her and slide the book onto her lap. As she slid it, however, some of Narcissa's long hair fell onto the pages. Granger delicately picked up the lock of blonde hair, moved it onto the robes stretched over her thigh, and pointed out the passage after slightly coughing. Narcissa lifted one eyebrow and looked over at the girl, whose features were caught somewhere between a frightened smile and a grimace. Slowly sliding her gaze away, Narcissa began reading the passage and recognized it as one she too had enjoyed. She nodded to herself and looked back up at Granger, who was already waiting for her reaction.

"Yes, this section was one of my favorites." At that, the Muggleborn seemed to come fully into her own.

"How could it not be? I mean, just notice what she's trying to get at. It's that difficulty in communicating your deepest thoughts and desires _and then_ the difficulty of trying to know what those are in someone else." Narcissa watched as the girl's eyes brightened with each word, and she couldn't help but internalize some of that energy. "It's something we all deal with, but that's also incredibly difficult to articulate. Yet, it's all _right there_." Granger pointed at the book still resting on Narcissa's lap.

"Yes, the author does possess an uncanny ability to write what we usually only feel."

Granger nodded emphatically and whispered, "Exactly. Exactly."

"I think how the writing style seems to slide almost seamlessly from thought to thought only helps with that."

"Stream of consciousness," Granger declared. When Narcissa gave her a puzzled look, she continued. "That's the name of the style you're referencing. She and a few other authors during the period pioneered it, although there _is_ some disagreement as to whether earlier works of literature exhibited a similar style."

"I suspect the section about the passage of time and the old family home would be a good example of stream of consciousness."

"Yes, absolutely – a very advanced version of it."

"Touching upon that, I wondered about the particular period this novel is set. There's references in that section to a war." Narcissa focused on keeping her voice even during the following exchange. This question was the main reason she asked to meet with Miss Granger, and it may bring up subjects that she still wanted to stay well away from.

"The Great War. That's what Muggles call it."

"Yes, that's beginning to trigger something in my memory." Narcissa remembered some veiled references amongst the older men in her family to that time. "I believe there was some disagreement in the Ministry during the period as to what our role should be."

Miss Granger nodded. "Minister Evermonde passed legislation specifically forbidding wizards from getting involved. He thought doing so would violate the Statute of Secrecy and endanger our world."

"I'm sure it would have," Narcissa intoned, then watched as Miss Granger seemed about to respond. She opened her mouth a couple times to begin, but then she stared off and spoke without looking at her.

"I think there are ways to help Muggles without putting our existence at risk. Minister Spencer-Moon's legislation and partnership with Winston Churchill during the Second World War only proves that."

Miss Granger turned slowly back towards Narcissa. It seemed like she wanted to give Narcissa a withering gaze that further enhanced the fact that – yes, she had proved her point. She held an opinion and backed it up with evidence, and Narcissa knew she couldn't argue with that, however much she'd like to put the know-it-all in her place.

Rather than relish her victory, Granger changed the subject.

"Have you read any of Virginia Woolf's other novels?"

"No, I haven't."

"Ah, you should. Some of them get even more complex and fluid than this one. What other Muggle literature have you read? I'll admit to being surprised when you first proved that you enjoy it to some extent."

Narcissa smirked at the thought of that moment, and it was a welcome memory after Granger had momentarily bested her during their conversation.

"Mostly the older works. Shakespeare, Donne, Chaucer, and all kinds of mythology, of course. It appears at some point we had a Muggle literature aficionado in the family. I happened upon those books by chance, while browsing the shelves in our family home. My parents took a closer glance at what I was reading, then swifty forbade it. Of course, at that point, I'd already become thoroughly addicted, especially to Shakespeare."

"Yes," Granger said through a smile. "He can have that effect."

"And how did you get interested in Muggle literature?"

She watched as Miss Granger's smile faltered for a moment and a blush crept onto her cheeks. "Well, I _am_ a Muggleborn," she said, obviously trying to deflect the question for some reason. Now, Narcissa was interested. She smelled blood in the water and was ready to find its source.

"Really? I wasn't aware of that, Miss Granger. Please do tell me more about this new information."

Granger gave her an exasperated look in response to her obvious sarcasm. When she realized that she wasn't going to let this go, Granger took a deep breath in and began.

"I had an ex, who studied literature at university. The shop was actually a joint venture. We partnered up to open it. We broke up last year though. That's how I know a bit about Muggle literature. Before that, I focused on wizarding books."

Narcissa suddenly remembered Andromeda's joke regarding how apologies can swiftly turn into leverage. It took another meeting, but here she was, hearing the romantic mishaps of perhaps the most famous witch of their time. Narcissa, of course, made sure not to show her overt interest, but nevertheless decided to dig a little deeper and see what else she could weasel out of the girl.

"Interesting. A wizard who decides to study literature at, I presume, a Muggle university. You don't often hear such things."

Granger's blush deepened, but Narcissa kept an innocent look on her face that she'd perfected back at Hogwarts. She thought of Shakespeare again now: _Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under it_. This poor Gryffindor didn't stand a chance.

"N-No," Granger stammered. Then, Narcissa watched as she closed her eyes and just brazened through the rest. "She was a Muggle."

Narcissa felt her eyes widen against her conscious will. Granger seemed to notice it too because she shifted uneasily and, after registering Narcissa's shocked expression, looked down at her hands, which fidgeted.

Only a moment ago, Narcissa had been ready to strike, neck coiled back and her posture at its most rigid. Now, she felt herself deflate, and her blood turn to ice. In her past, there had been many secrets she and Lucius had used against the people who had blocked their way. Relationships with Muggles were always a definite deathblow to someone's career, especially if that someone was a pureblood.

Narcissa often learned such things in ways not unsimilar to this situation right now. For some unknown reason, acquaintances trusted Narcissa enough to divulge their secrets over tea or a stroll through the gardens of Malfoy Manor. Perhaps, once people believed they'd bypassed her ice queen exterior, they somehow thought they'd also found a confidante. Most were very wrong, of course. Outside of the family, Narcissa held no mercy for another person's secrets. Knowing the damage such a relationship could wreak, she would pass along the information to her husband, and he wielded his political power against that person. In this way, they'd shifted the members of the Wizengamot, replaced department heads in the Ministry, and put the pressure on where and when they could. In so doing, they had prepared the Ministry for Lord Voldemort's return without even realizing it. The thought made Narcissa shudder, knowing how active a role she and her husband had played in the Dark Lord's ascendancy.

Yet, it wasn't the blood of Granger's ex that struck a chord with Narcissa, but rather it was the gender. Of all the secrets she'd been told over the years, sexuality of course came up now and then. These secrets and double lives, however, were never passed along to Lucius. He had no right to them, she would think to herself, and she'd concocted a hundred reasons why he never needed to know about them. Beneath it all lied a much more selfish reason why she never forwarded these confessions to her husband.

She hardly ever admitted that reason to herself. She never had the chance to, really. Her life had been arranged and decided for her, and she fell almost perfectly into her role as pureblood bride to _the_ catch of the time. Nevertheless, something inside her tensed whenever she allowed her mind or her spirit to wander too far away from those prescribed duties and dogmas. She casted many of her internal debates in terms of politics in peacetime, but a much more personal and longer-lasting debate raged within her as well. Her last afternoon with Granger touched upon those public, political conflicts, while Granger's confession right now touched upon the personal.

The awkward silence continued between them. Granger obviously wanted to end it multiple times, but seemed unable to find a route out of it. Narcissa swallowed down her own unearthed thoughts.

"I also wondered if you had any recommendations for further reading, Miss Granger."

The younger witch's shoulders immediately relaxed, although Narcissa could almost sense how her Gryffindor pride balked from the obvious subject change. It was easier to leave things unsaid, as Narcissa knew all too well, and Miss Granger seemed to recognize this as well. She quickly reached into her bag and pulled out a few books.

"I brought a couple options with me. I wasn't sure if you were interested in more prose or if you'd like to switch into poetry. Since you mentioned enjoying Donne and mythology, I'm glad I brought the poetry." She smiled stiffly and held out the two books.

Narcissa took both in her hands, but hardly glanced at the novel. The cover for the book of poetry caught her eye, much as _To the Lighthouse_ had. A mythic deity seemed to emerge from green shrubbery, while another being seemed to call it forth, both into existence and to the lush field in the background. Narcissa was reminded of the mythologies she'd consumed in her youth and instantly gravitated towards this book. Miss Granger seemed to note her interest.

"Looks like you're leaning towards the Keats?"

"The Keats? Is that a name or a movement?"

"A name," Granger replied, through a still-nervous chuckle. "John Keats. He was part of the Romantic movement." Narcissa's nose must have scrunched up, as she knew it was wont to do when she registered displeasure, because Granger explained. "Romantic with a capital R. They're not all love poems or anything like that. Romantic means," she paused, searching for the right words apparently, "An interest in nature and retold myths and sometimes connecting those myths to reality. I'm not explaining this well. There are some Romantic poets that are Gothic. I'm sure you know what that means - dark, stormy, sometimes scary. Keats at times does that, but most of the time, it's about...something else, something deeper. It's one of those things that you'll understand when you read it, explaining it might kill it actually...as much as I hate to admit it."

Narcissa grinned slightly, knowing from reputation how obsessed this girl was with final conclusions and real solutions. She'd do better as a Ministry official than a literary critic, Narcissa thought.

"I'll try this then."

"Good! I'm glad I brought it. He doesn't really follow Woolf in any logical way, but I don't know. When I was looking through my bookshelf, I felt like you might be interested."

"This book is yours?"

Granger nodded.

"Well, take it back for now, and I'll visit your shop and buy my own copy. You've already given me one book; I can't accept another, especially from your own collection." A Black never borrowed.

"No, I insist, Ms. Black. I already have too many books in my tiny apartment. I should start finding better homes for them."

"What makes you think my home would be a better one?"

The brunette witch gazed directly back at the blonde, then after a few moments, she shrugged. "Just a hunch."

Rather than respond, Narcissa began flipping through the book and noticed writing in the margins and pieces of paper seemingly stuck to certain pages.

"Oh! That's one of the good things about getting a used book of poetry," Granger said. "My favorite poems have post-its stuck to them, so if you'd like, you can start with those, then explore."

Narcissa flicked one of the small papers with the tip of her forefinger, realizing these must be the "post-its" she was referring to.

"Thank you, Miss Granger," Narcissa finally said. Then, before she even realized she was speaking again, "Would you care to meet again next week? To discuss Mr. Keats, I mean."

If the girl's raised eyebrows and slackened jaw were any indication, she hadn't expected another invitation. Before Narcissa could second guess herself, however, Miss Granger immediately answered, "Yes, of course. Same time?"

"Yes, my Sunday afternoons are usually free." _All my afternoons are free, but you don't need to know that._

"Here again? Or would you rather meet somewhere on the wizarding side?"

"No," Narcissa answered, perhaps a little too quickly. "Here is fine. Or perhaps that tea room, for a change of venue?"

The girl nodded. "We'll do the tea room then."

"And do try to be punctual next week, Miss Granger," Narcissa declared half-seriously.

Hermione smiled much as she had when Narcissa first began discussing _To the Lighthouse_. It brightened her otherwise dull, brown eyes, Narcissa noticed.

"I'll try," Hermione finally said.

"Until then." Narcissa stood and slowly walked away from their bench, moving amidst the Muggles strolling through and towards the apparition point she'd found earlier. From a distance, she heard the girl's repeated, "Until then," and tried not to interrogate the anticipation she already felt with the weight of poetry in her hands and the thought of next week's meeting in her mind.

* * *

 **A/N: All the comments and reviews were fantastic last time, and I really appreciate everyone who takes the time to leave their thoughts. It gives me a better sense of what you all like and want some more of. Like I've said before, I'm creating this as I go, so the** **encouragement sure does help. Hope you all enjoyed this chapter! And leave a review if you'd like!**


	9. Chapter 9

Narcissa leant up against the doorframe of her sister's kitchen, watching as she charmed her way through dinner preparations. A knife chopped vegetables behind her, a large spoon stirred the pot on the stove, and Andromeda herself kept an eye on the meat roasting in the oven, checking the temperature and ensuring it wasn't overcooked.

"How did you learn to do all this?" Narcissa asked.

"Well, poor Ted had to eat burnt food for a while, but I learned just from trial and error. There was also always some kind witch at the grocer's who probably felt sorry for me and was willing to offer advice at the deli counter."

Narcissa doubted she'd be able to scramble an egg. Thankfully, she'd always had a bevy of house elves in the kitchen at Malfoy Manor, waiting only for her requests for meals and the rest was their responsibility. Watching Andromeda's magical and literal multitasking, however, made her feel as if she should be doing _something_ , even if she had no idea where to begin.

"Can I help with anything?"

Andromeda laughed loudly in response. "No, darling. You just stand there and look pretty." After giving her final assessment of the roast, she closed the oven and wiped her hands on her apron. "What have you been up to? I feel as if I haven't seen you in ages."

"Nothing of consequence," Narcissa replied. "I've begun reorganizing the gardens on the east lawn. They've turned into a mangle of weeds that actively fight against any sign of life, so I'm trying to find the best way to start over again. I've been reading some old gardening books in the library."

"That sounds interesting, and I'm sure it will only become more diverting. I'd love to help whenever you need me."

"Oh I appreciate it, Andy. I planned on asking you at some point."

Andromeda smiled and nodded. "Anything new with Draco and the girlfriend?"

"I believe it's still going well. They visited for brunch last week. She seems to be acclimating to me. Less trembling and more talking."

"That's good! And are _you_ acclimating to her?"

Narcissa shrugged. "I suppose. She makes Draco incredibly happy, so I can't help but like her simply on that basis alone." As she spoke, Narcissa watched Andromeda end the charm that kept the knife chopping vegetables, then swiftly levitate those vegetables into the steaming pot on the stove. She stirred the vegetables slowly into the stew, and Narcissa walked further into the kitchen, finally stopping next to the stove and very near her sister.

"I've also been reading quite a bit," she muttered offhandedly.

"Yes, you mentioned that. The gardening books."

"And some other ones." She watched her sister continue to stir the stew, adding in some spices and herbs after dipping the tip of her finger in and tasting the mixture. "Muggle ones."

Andromeda slowly raised one eyebrow and turned towards her. "I seem to recall a young teenager who was caught reading Muggle books in the library and was told to immediately cease and desist."

Narcissa grinned. "She's back."

"Fabulous! I'm glad when my little sister gets a bit rebellious. I can't carry the rebel title alone for my entire life. You haven't run off with a Muggleborn yet, but we'll take it one step at a time."

Narcissa tensed and felt the blood flood her face against her will. Andromeda looked askance at her sister and noticed how she'd frozen. Narcissa smiled softly, trying to smooth over her reaction, but Andromeda caught that frightened – and perhaps even slightly ashamed – look. Rather than interrogate that look, however, Andromeda thought of something.

"Oh! Is that book you recommended to me last month a Muggle one?"

" _To the Lighthouse_. Yes. You'd like the story. It reminded me very much of our childhood and of mother."

Andromeda hummed. "I'm not so sure I'd like it then."

"The good parts of our childhood...and of mother." Andromeda nodded begrudgingly. Both women knew there were good parts, and it would do neither of them any good to erase those moments.

"And what piqued your interest in Muggle literature?"

"It happened quite by accident. I passed by Miss Granger's bookstore, and she recommended _To the Lighthouse_. Since then, I've kept reading her recommendations."

Andromeda's eyes grew twice their size. "Excuse me, young woman." Narcissa laughed. "Let's move back for a moment. So you _did_ return to Hermione's store and meet with her?" Narcissa nodded nonchalantly and began fiddling with the silverware arranged on the counter. "And now she's giving you book recommendations?"

"Yes," Narcissa replied. "I either borrow one from her or visit her shop to buy one. Then, once I finish reading, we meet to discuss it somewhat. Right now, I'm reading a fascinating novel called _The Age of Innocence_. It's American, but still surprisingly good."

"Wait, wait, wait. Again. Let's move back. So are you part of a book club?"

"No. It's just her and I." Narcissa had arranged the three forks and three knives into neat piles on the counter, then once the silence settled, she looked up at her sister who was already staring at her and wearing a questioning look on her face. "What?"

Andromeda's eyebrows narrowed slightly, but it seemed she'd found what she was looking for in Narcissa's features. "Nothing," she finally said. "I'm glad you're getting out of the house, even if it is for something so tragically dull as a book club. I'm considering rescinding your rebel status."

"It is _not_ a book club."

"Then what is it, exactly?" Andromeda snapped the stove's knobs into the off position and turned toward her sister with one eyebrow raised.

"It's…," Narcissa hesitated, trying to find the right words. Truthfully, she had been asking herself Andromeda's question for weeks now, but she'd always balked before answering it. She hoped the same tactic would work on Andy. "What does it matter what it is? I ignore the girl, and you reprimand me for it, saying I should be more social. I meet with the girl, and you begin asking questions. We read. We talk. We have tea. That's the gist of it."

Andromeda raised her hands in mock surrender. "Touchy, touchy. It was just a simple question. No need to get all flustered."

"I'm _not_ getting––," Narcissa began, while pinching the bridge of her nose. She looked up at Andromeda then, who seemed to barely be keeping in a burst of laughter. Narcissa grabbed a nearby washcloth and threw it at her sister's face. "Have I already told you that you're still as exasperating as you were when you were a teenager?"

Andromeda finally freed the loud laugh she'd kept held in throughout the exchange, and Narcissa merely rolled her eyes, while helping her sister move the stew to a serving bowl and the roast from the oven to the table. Andromeda called Teddy's name once they'd finished, and the boy quickly bolted out from his bedroom down the hall, obviously more than ready for dinner.

Right when he was just about to climb up onto his chair, Andromeda chastised, "Uh uh, Teddy Lupin. What have I told you about when we have ladies to dinner?"

Narcissa heard a whispered, "Oh," then watched the boy slip back onto the floor and stand with his back straight, obviously waiting for his grandmother and great-aunt to sit before him. Once they did, he again climbed back onto the chair and readied himself for dinner. Narcissa smiled and winked at the boy sitting across from her, enjoying this echoed scene that she too had experienced time and again with her own son when he was growing up.

They ate Andromeda's delicious meal in relative silence, although Teddy chimed in now and then to discuss a new toy or discovery he'd made. Narcissa asked him questions, trying to support his childish pursuits, while Andromeda looked onto the scene with a smile. Never had she imagined _this_ would be her family, but these two people – embodiments of the old and the new – brought her joy and brightened her home. Her gaze fell on her sister in particular, and she wondered when or if she would find something of her own to fill her home.

Once dinner finished, they all helped clear the table and placed their dirty dishes by the sink, where Andromeda began the charm for them to begin cleaning themselves. With that done, Teddy asked if he could play in the backyard for a while. Andromeda usually refused, but today had been unusually warm for a late winter day. Even she wouldn't mind some time outdoors.

They moved to the backyard, where Teddy ran off in a sprint, climbing the playset Harry had bought him last year. Narcissa and Andromeda sat on the patio, watching the boy at play and the last dim remnants of sunlight give way to night.

Andromeda pulled out a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of her robes. She shook out one for herself, then offered one to Narcissa, who declined.

She was halfway through the cigarette, enjoying the silence and her own thoughts, when Narcissa began speaking.

"The first time we met to discuss books," she began. Andromeda smirked to herself, knowing their pre-dinner conversation still weighed on her sister's mind. "Miss Granger mentioned something I found quite...interesting."

"And what was that?" Andromeda asked on an exhale of smoke. She noticed her sister's hand clench and unclench around the skirts of her robes.

"Her bookstore began as a partnership."

"Oh? I wasn't aware of that."

"Yes. With an ex of hers."

"Doesn't seem like it ended well."

"No, I think not."

Andromeda was slightly disappointed. "Was that the only thing of interest?" Silence again reigned after this question, and Narcissa's head dropped back to look up at the stars, which had finally begun to emerge. Quickly, she found Orion and stared.

Her eyes still gazing at the heavens, she answered. "Apparently, the partner was a Muggle woman." She tried to speak the words with a hint of mischief, just as she would divulge a piece of anyone else's gossip, but it didn't quite come off. Andromeda, however, still took the bait.

She sat up straight from the reclinable patio chair. "Well, _that's_ something of interest."

Narcissa smirked.

"I can't say I'm completely surprised, though."

"Why is that?" Narcissa quickly asked.

"Small things here and there that I've picked up from Harry and from her." Andromeda took another drag on her cigarette and noticed her sister reaching towards it. As usual, Cissy never took an offered cig, but instead just leeched off her own. Andromeda passed it over, and Narcissa inhaled deeply. They both had Bella to thank for this bad habit.

"Small things such as…" Narcissa prompted, returning the cigarette to her sister.

"I know her relationship with Ronald Weasley didn't turn out well, but they're all very quiet about why. I just thought it was the usual awkwardness that comes when two close friends try romance, and it doesn't work. I'm sure that's part of it. Another part of that awkwardness probably stems from how she moved on from him."

Narcissa blew smoke into the night sky, momentarily obscuring the constellations she'd found there.

"I suppose the publicity around her relationship with the Weasley boy blinds most people to considering her sexuality."

"Indeed," Andromeda agreed. "Only in retrospect can I see some hints, but I can't recall ever considering her as anything other than straight. Then again, I'm quite daft when it comes to intuiting that."

Narcissa chuckled softly.

"It's true. I thought Nymphadora would bring home a new _girl_ friend when she finally did introduce us to her first big love interest. I was bracing myself for it, in fact. Turned out that I was shocked in a much different manner."

Once again, Narcissa laughed, but this time the mirth was halfhearted. Something in Andromeda's words stuck with her and prompted her next question. "What do you mean 'bracing yourself'?"

Andromeda's brow furrowed at the question. "You're asking if I would've been disappointed in having a daughter who loved women," she declared, then looked directly at her sister.

Narcissa still contemplated the stars, and Andromeda realized how, from the beginning of their conversation, she seemed determined to keep her gaze hidden. Suddenly, she felt like repeating her words from their conversation a month ago: _You may be a fantastic occlumens, but that doesn't work on me._ Yet, something stopped her from doing so because right now – good occlumens or not – she wasn't quite understanding what her sister was after and why.

"If I accepted a werewolf, what makes you think I wouldn't accept a woman, Cissy?"

Her sister shrugged, but her eyes remained fixed above.

"There may've been many things our parents drilled into our heads about propriety and acceptable behavior," Andromeda continued. "But at least while I was there, the focus always remained firmly on blood purity rather than gender. Come to think of it, I doubt they'd have cared if it was a man, woman, or extraterrestrial, so long as their bloodlines could be proven back to Salazar Slytherin."

Andromeda heard her sister exhale with a short chuckle, and she was glad to have brought some much needed levity back to the conversation. Narcissa, for her part, was also thankful for her sister's lighthearted treatment of the subject, especially since she'd been involuntarily brooding about all this since her first book discussion with Granger.

She couldn't pinpoint exactly why the girl's confession seemed to strike a gong within her spirit, causing ripples and echoes that continued for weeks. Granger hadn't mentioned her romantic past again, nor had Narcissa brought it up. Yet, those echoes persisted. Now, Andromeda's comment about their parents seemed to answer those echoes.

Like Andy, Narcissa really had no idea how her parents would have felt about _that_ possibility. Andromeda had broken their most cherished cardinal rule, and in the shadow of that transgression, nothing else seemed to matter. After that, young Narcissa saw it as her duty to follow her family's desires and subsequently bring some decency back to the Black family name. Marrying Lucius was never a choice or a desire; it was a necessity. She was reminded of this fact multiple times, both by her parents and by Bellatrix.

This sense of duty in her young life and throughout her marriage is what made it so difficult to live for herself now. She had no idea where to begin. The whole world seemed open to her, and she began questioning beliefs, desires, and thoughts that she once took for granted. Of course, after the war and her divorce, the most pressing and consistent questioning was in reference to her advocacy of blood purity. Granger's confession, however, sparked a new questioning within her that simultaneously intrigued and frightened her. She felt her heart beat heavily whenever she thought of it, almost as if begging to break through the cage of her ribs. She felt...too much, and she didn't know how to direct it.

When you spend your whole life being told how cold you are, it's easy to internalize those comments and that reputation. Indeed, she often credited her reputation for further fueling her already naturally advanced skills in occlumency. If she was going to be the pureblood Ice Queen, then she might as well live up to it in both facade and magical ability. Over the years, her powers had grown to such an extent that not even Lord Voldemort himself could see past her walls of ice and stone.

Lucius would complain about her stoicism often, although halfheartedly. He'd chide his "cold wife" when she shrugged away from him or whispered, "Not tonight," once again. Luckily, he never seemed to care. Narcissa wondered once or twice if he sought pleasure elsewhere, but he was always too busy with work and his quest for power to want anything or anyone else. She thought of how fortunate she was to marry a man who seemed to draw his deepest happiness from his career, which was why he turned into a shell of himself after the Dark Lord's repeated humiliations, both of his status and his masculinity.

She helped him through that because he was hers and his downfall meant the downfall of herself and, most importantly, of her son. The thought of Draco reminded Narcissa that she was not all ice and stoicism. When she thought back on those dark times when Draco had first joined the Death Eaters, she couldn't help but shudder at the emotional display she'd exhibited that night at Snape's home. It couldn't be helped. She could feel passionately and, at times, too deeply for those she loved. Her maternal "instinct" felt more like an incessant drive towards pouring her heart into her one object of affection. The rest of the world could snicker at her unfeeling facade, but her love for Draco reminded her that she had warm blood coursing through her veins.

Her reunion with Andromeda tapped into that warmth as well, further proving that she wasn't carved from stone. She had once prided herself on that idea of being the coldblooded pureblood matriarch, but now, something had changed. Andromeda, her own blood, reminded her what it was like to live for yourself and for those you truly love.

Then, in these past few weeks with Miss Granger, the river beneath the ice flowed faster. During their literary conversations, she was reminded of her days at Hogwarts, when their librarian would have to kick her out at the latest hour and when she'd flush with happiness when she once again received high marks on an essay. She'd forgotten how passionate she'd once been in all her readings – both magical and Muggle – as a child, and Miss Granger helped resurrect those strong feelings.

She was still unsure as to why, wrapped up in these literary interests, her mind kept skipping back to that first conversation and Granger's confession. She knew they were tied in some way, but that way continued to elude her.

Bringing herself back to this moment with her sister, Narcissa sighed deeply and reminded herself that it wouldn't do to become completely trapped in her own head, especially when other people were around.

During her silence, Andromeda watched Teddy at play and enjoyed the peace of a late winter's evening, noticing how her sister seemed to retreat into herself once more and realizing it wasn't the right time to pry into those thoughts – not yet. She checked her watch and flicked her cigarette stub into the distance.

"Teddy," she called out. "It's time for you to start preparing for bed, love."

Narcissa heard Teddy complain softly to himself, already knowing his grandmother wouldn't listen to any begging for more time. Then, he began walking back towards them, and they all reentered the house. Teddy bid his great-aunt goodnight and moved toward his bedroom, while his grandmother promised she'd wish him goodnight in a moment.

"Before I leave," Narcissa said, as she picked up her scarf and coat from the rack by the door. "I was hoping I could ask you for a favor."

"Yes?"

"I'm...Well, you see…" Narcissa kept stuttering for a beginning to this question that she couldn't believe she was about to ask. Andromeda grew more intrigued with each halting start. Then, Narcissa closed her eyes and ran quickly through it. "I was wondering if you could help me choose some Muggle clothes for myself."

"What?!" Andromeda had _not_ been expecting that at all.

"I knew I should have just done this on my own," Narcissa muttered.

Andromeda laughed and said, "You're just full of surprises this evening, Cissy. What, in Merlin's name, do _you_ need Muggle clothes for?"

"Will you help me or not?" Narcissa sharply asked, flinching after Andromeda's "surprises" comment. _Had her sister noticed something?_

"Forgive me, darling," Andromeda apologized and squeezed her sister's arm gently. "I just hadn't expected that. I have a few pieces in my closet that you can borrow.

Narcissa's nose wrinkled. "I was thinking of going somewhere to be fitted. Besides, I'd drown in your clothes."

From gently squeezing her arm, Andromeda pinched it hard. "That's bollocks, and you know it."

"Language, Andromeda."

"Have I already told you that you're still as exasperating as you were when you were a teenager?" Andromeda ground out the question her sister had first asked her earlier that evening.

"Yes. Frequently, actually," Narcissa lightly replied. "Now, will you help me?"

"I suppose," Andromeda conceded. "You don't get fitted for Muggle clothes though, Narcissa. We'll have to go shopping."

"I see," Narcissa frowned. "If you're available this weekend, let me know. Perhaps Saturday?"

"That should be fine. I'll owl you with where to meet me."

"Good." Rather than bid her sister goodbye with a formal cheek to cheek kiss, Narcissa tightly embraced Andromeda, slowly letting go after a few moments.

Andy seemed to have been caught off guard (yet again that evening), but she smiled wide once they broke apart. "Goodnight, Cissy."

"Goodnight. Thank you for the lovely dinner, Andy." She shrugged herself into her coat and scarf. "Until Saturday." With that, she disapparated.

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks so much to the wonderful response to last chapter. This one was a bit more difficult to write, and I actually ended up writing two different versions. This is the one I feel works best, so let me know what you think! Next chapter, we'll be back with Hermione, who...well, let's just say she's developing what some would call a "crush." :3**


	10. Chapter 10

Steam whooshed into the air, and the clank clank of the metal pitcher against the table rang across the usual soft roar of her local coffee shop. Hermione watched for a moment as a barista poured the milk from the silver pitcher into the small coffee cup. She quickly collected herself again and kept taking notes she'd been gathering from her most recent find at the Wizarding Library.

Over the past month, Hermione had continued amassing notes and observations and conclusions on a variety of subjects, all of which revealed the flaws in the Ministry's current plans to assimilate magical creatures and disenfranchised wizards and witches back into society. She had ceased questioning her actions and just allowed herself to follow the breadcrumbs. She'd begun to see it as research for its own sake, something to occupy her mind when she wasn't working at the bookstore or reading for pleasure.

At the thought of reading for pleasure, Hermione's eyes wandered to her copy of _The Age of Innocence_ resting on the table. She checked her watch and saw it was a quarter 'til two. She smiled to herself in anticipation and wondered what Narcissa would think when she saw her there early for once.

It had become something of a competition since their first outing together to see who would arrive at their chosen spot first. Narcissa invariably won and celebrated her victory by glaring at Hermione, while chiding her on her continued tardiness. Today, however, things wouldn't go her way. She'd decided to head to their coffee shop a couple hours early and get some research done before their meeting. Then, it would be practically impossible for the regal witch to look down in disdain on her frazzled late arrival. Hermione's mouth again quirked at the thought.

Continuing down the rabbit trail, Hermione wondered when she began thinking of her as Narcissa and not Ms. Black. Although she'd hate to admit it, she probably began shedding those preconceived notions and barriers quite early on in their meetings.

She remembered the week they met to discuss Keats's poetry, and she still couldn't help but marvel in memory at how engrossed Narcissa was in the poems. While Hermione kept on harping about the socioeconomic culture of the period and Keats's biography, Narcissa kept redirecting her to the poetry itself with a "Yes, but…"

" _Like that's a reference to Ruth from the Judeo-Christian tradition. Her story is actually quite interesting because––"_

" _Yes, yes, Miss Granger," Narcissa's clear voice cut in, clearly done with a conversation on origins and facts. "But have you noticed the actual words he uses? The sounds?"_

 _Hermione tried to play off her confusion, but failed. "I'm not sure what you mean."_

" _Do you read poetry aloud?"_

" _No…" Narcissa's eyes widened slightly at the response. She angled her body closer to Hermione's across the small tea table, and Hermione noticed her perfume – something floral and surprisingly sweet._

" _Look here." She pulled Hermione's copy of Keats between them and pointed out a passage that came earlier in the poem they were discussing. "Read that stanza to yourself."_

 _Hermione did as directed and read silently the stanza Narcissa's red manicured finger pointed to. "...Okay? It's the part about wine. He wants to drink some."_

" _Very good, Miss Granger. Your reading comprehension is off the charts, as usual." Hermione kept her gaze on the page, but rolled her eyes at the woman's sarcasm – a favorite form of ridicule, it seemed. "Yes, he wants to drink wine," Narcissa continued. "But how else do you know that? Or rather how else do you_ feel _that?"_

 _Hermione looked at the woman quizzically, obviously getting frustrated with how she failed to grasp what Narcissa was getting at. She seemed to notice this and decided to help the girl._

" _Listen," she said. Then, Narcissa began reciting the verses._

" _O for a beaker full of the warm South,_

 _Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,_

 _With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,_

 _And purple-stained mouth."_

 _Hermione tried to listen and find what Narcissa was pointing out, but on the third line, Hermione's eyes gravitated toward the woman's lips. They seemed to wrap around the words and savor them, just as the narrator in Keats's poem hoped to savor a glass of wine._

" _Understand now?" Narcissa asked, her voice back to its usual tone._

 _Hermione felt startled, and her eyes kept bouncing back and forth between the page and Narcissa's mouth._

" _I think so," Hermione finally managed to say, through a narrow windpipe. "The actual sounds of the words are supposed to mimic the act he's describing?"_

 _When Narcissa's eyes brightened, Hermione knew she was on the right track. "Exactly. All those b's said aloud makes you taste the words on your lips and subsequently enhances that taste sense the poet is trying to convey in the actual content of the verses."_

 _Hermione wondered how many times she'd mention "tasting" words on her lips, and she felt a blush begin to creep onto her cheeks. The blonde witch seemed not to notice, however, since she began rifling through her book's pages again, looking for another good example._

" _Mr. Keats seemed to know exactly which words work best for his poetry and perfectly chose them for each moment. Some words and sounds are better for the task than others, you see."_

 _She continued talking about how the ode "To Autumn" also exhibited this, but Hermione's thoughts moved elsewhere._

 _She wondered what Keats would think of a name like Narcissa._

 _Hermione had whispered it to herself again and again that night, tying the sibilant sounds to silks, snakes, and swift sea currents. And that's how the blonde pureblood witch she read books with transformed from Ms. Black to Narcissa...in Hermione's head, at least._

Hermione forced herself from her memories. The woman in question would probably be walking in any minute, and it wouldn't be wise to spend the few moments right before her arrival pondering the poetry of her name.

She snapped her pen onto the notebook a couple times, then tried to focus on the notes she had been taking before letting her mind wander. Yet, once that door had opened, Hermione found herself walking swiftly through it and remembering countless little moments during their meetings.

Narcissa's natural intelligence had initially caught her off guard, but as their discussions progressed, Hermione began to take it for granted. Each new observation that had escaped Hermione's notice only drew her closer to the blonde woman. She wondered how this pureblood witch could so voraciously consume and enjoy Muggle literature. Her parents forbade it, she knew, and Hermione couldn't help but feel awestruck at the passion this woman seemed to feel for something she'd always been told was beneath her as a witch from the illustrious Black family.

Then, that passion itself surprised Hermione. She was prepared for stoic, one-sided conversations, and oftentimes their meetings would begin with a good ten minute period where Narcissa would play the pureblood society lady, listening politely and slowly sipping her tea or surveying the surrounding scene. When the tea was finished, however, it seemed to thaw the woman sitting across from her. Hermione then realized that perhaps she just needed time to relax. Some people could easily jump into a dialogue with another person, while others needed to wade into the waters slowly, gauging the temperature. Once she felt comfortable, she'd share insights like the one about tasting Keats's poetry or about how that passage in _Madame Bovary_ was actually much better in French or the incredible accuracies in Chekhov's depiction of upper class life in his short stories. She would silence Hermione's contextual backgrounds and character maps and plot curves with these small moments and deep observations. Hermione could do nothing but absorb the treasures her point of view seemed to automatically gravitate towards.

While Narcissa spoke, Hermione would also watch the changes in her facial features, as she transformed from Ms. Black to Narcissa. Through watching the changes, she learned the angles of each feature itself. Her cheekbones, for instance, sat high upon her face and reddened slightly whenever she got too caught up in an observation. Her eyes were blue, but if you looked closely, you could see small flecks of brown. Hermione thought it was her Black blood trying to peek through. Her nose seemed perfectly straight, but when they sat on their bench in the park during one meeting, Hermione caught her profile. She noticed a small yet sharp angle on the slope of her nose that added yet another aristocratic note to her appearance. She thought of that picture in the Sacred Twenty-Eight book she'd got on loan from the library. Narcissa still possessed her mother's coloring, but as an adult, her features grew into their Black origins and seemed carved from stone with a rough chisel.

Hermione then recalled the first time she noticed her favorite of Narcissa's features.

" _Come on," Hermione goaded the woman sitting on the park bench next to her. "Let's act out this exchange. It's too perfect not to."_

" _No, Miss Granger. I won't act a scene from a play in a public Muggle park. I have limits."_

" _Weren't you the one who said literature was supposed to be read aloud or else you miss the best parts?"_

" _I was speaking of poetry then, not drama."_

" _But plays are_ supposed _to be acted out. That's why they're written!"_

 _Narcissa narrowed her eyes at Hermione, who just smiled innocently and hoped she would cave in. Hermione watched as Narcissa bit her bottom lip, and she internally beamed. Hermione knew this was a sign that she was at least considering the idea._

" _From which line?" Narcissa asked._

" _From where Gwendolen enters the scene," Hermione replied, trying to keep the victory out of her voice._

" _I'll play Gwendolen then. You can play Cecily."_

 _They launched into one of the final exchanges of Oscar Wilde's_ The Importance of Being Earnest _. The two main female characters exchanged a volley of sly insults and casual digs. Both Hermione and Narcissa didn't miss a beat, perfectly capturing the fast pace of wordplay and one-liners during an afternoon tea between two society women and romantic rivals._

 _In a clipped posh accent different from her usual deep melodious tones, Narcissa delivered the final repartie: "You have filled my tea with lumps of sugar, and though I asked most distinctly for bread and butter, you have given me cake. I am known for the gentleness of my disposition, and the extraordinary sweetness of my nature, but I warn you, Miss Cardew, you may go too far."_

 _Hermione tried to stay in character and keep the scene going, but besides the hilarious lines themselves, Narcissa's scandalized look and her exaggerated diction made her break character and laugh outright. Hermione's laugh surprised Narcissa out of character as well, and she seemed to contract Hermione's mirth._

 _That's when she heard Narcissa's laugh for the first time. It was low like her voice and seemed to shoot from her gut straight through her parted lips, where it tumbled out like a current over smooth stones. Hermione had always been half-ashamed of her own loud cackle, and Narcissa's quiet yet solid laugh drew her notice. Then, Narcissa couldn't stop smiling. Her mouth, stained with a red tint, contrasted against the white of her teeth and mesmerized Hermione._

" _It_ is _rather good," Narcissa said through her low chuckles._

"You're _rather good," Hermione responded before thinking. Narcissa drew back slightly in surprise, and her smile faltered. "Your acting, I mean." Hermione quickly added. "I think you may've missed your calling, Ms. Black."_

 _Narcissa's smile widened now, although her eyes held a new shyness in them that Hermione had not yet seen before. She gazed upon Hermione for a few moments, seeming to enjoy her continued soft laughter. Finally, she said, "I think I may've missed a great many callings, Miss Granger."_

 _A surprised look came over the blonde witch's face almost instantly, and Hermione realized that those words – like her own earlier – perhaps weren't meant to be uttered aloud._

 _Narcissa quickly stammered her way through a hasty wrap-up of their conversation and a farewell. She left Hermione sitting confused on the bench, and it was only after receiving Narcissa's owl a couple days later that Hermione realized they hadn't discussed their next reading._

That was last week. Now, Hermione sat waiting for her again with the book they agreed on over owl post. As the memory faded, both Narcissa's laughter and her shocked expression did not. Hermione had pondered what it meant almost to the point of obsession, but ultimately realized that Narcissa was a puzzle she may not be able to crack. Like with textbooks and academic essays, Hermione possessed an ability to read into a person's character, their motives, and their deeds. That ability was perhaps her greatest asset during the war, when her two friends' minds were often so clouded by unbridled Gryffindor passion. Narcissa, however, was beyond Hermione's mental powers, which simultaneously frustrated and attracted her.

Like her research into the legislature regulating the lives of magical creatures, Hermione saw her interest in Narcissa Black as a hobby. She would continue to follow the clues to her character and see where they led. While her magical research seemed to be leading toward particular findings, however, her research into Narcissa Black seemed circuitous, forever turning back upon itself like a snake biting its own tail.

To steady herself after these mental wanderings, Hermione again tried to continue her research notes, and after a few minutes, she seemed to finally get into her groove again.

She gasped in delight when a connection clicked in her head, and she rushed to set it down on paper, her handwriting an almost unintelligible scrawl in her haste. She was just about to get to the end of her thought when––

"Early, Miss Granger? I didn't think you had it in you."

Hermione's head shot upward, and she felt her hand slip and her pen scratch into the paper at the effect of what she saw.

Narcissa Black was wearing Muggle clothes.

Over the weeks, Hermione had grown used to the odd looks sent her companion's way whenever they entered a tea room or walked through a park. She had noticed multiple times when the blonde witch had grimaced at the unwanted attention, not in shame but rather in annoyance. Perhaps she'd become annoyed enough and decided to try out a Muggle look. That's the only possible explanation Hermione could come up with because, before this moment, Hermione could have never foreseen that _this_ pureblood witch would undergo the supposed debasement that wearing Muggle clothing might entail.

Most wizards usually bungled their attempts at Muggle clothing, wearing mismatched styles or too many layers or too little. Narcissa, however, seemed to intuitively know what she was doing because even the stylish young Londoners sitting at the next table turned to point at the dark burgundy suede heels at the end of her long legs wrapped in black tights.

For her part, Hermione knew her eyes had widened and her jaw had slackened, but she couldn't yet bring herself to care. From the burgundy heels to the black tights, her gaze continued upward to the fitted grey dress that landed right above the knee. The wide, slight V-neck revealed pale collarbones, and the long sleeves were tight on her arms, ending right at her wrists and bringing attention to her long fingers bedecked in her usual assortment of gold rings. A belt of thick gold chains twined around her waist, calling attention to her figure and making Hermione's throat run dry.

She remained silent and watched as Narcissa hesitantly sat, while casting a strange look in her direction. Hermione knew she was ogling the woman, but those collarbones and the long blonde hair getting caught in the loose neckline of the dress kept her attention fixed. She remembered the feel of her hair in her hands when she'd shifted it during their first meeting.

When Hermione looked up a little further, she noticed something that instantly broke her gaze. Narcissa looked uncomfortable and fidgeted with her dress, pulling it down a bit more and adjusting the belt.

"Am I wearing something incorrectly?" Narcissa snapped in an urgent whisper after leaning towards Hermione.

Hermione then quickly realized what she'd done and went into damage control.

"No," she croaked, through her still constricted windpipe. "You're wearing everything very...correctly." About a thousand other descriptions flitted through her brain, but Hermione landed on "correctly" instead. She closed her eyes in embarrassment.

"I'm sorry," she tried again. "I was just surprised. You look very fine." She inhaled a shuddering breath and hoped her words would ease the woman without being too forward.

They seemed to have the desired effect because the blonde took a deep breath in and seemed to relax. She surveyed the room quickly, it being their first time at this particular coffee shop. After glancing at the scuffed concrete floors, the industrial furniture, and the modern art on the walls, Narcissa finally turned back to Hermione.

"This is an interesting spot."

"Yes," Hermione responded, trying to keep normal conversation going, although she kept noticing different little accessories and details in Narcissa clothes. "I thought we could try something different. I can go up to the counter and put down our orders. What would you like?"

Narcissa leaned slightly back and looked at the menu scrawled in chalk onto the wall. Hermione thought she noticed an eyeroll before she began reading.

"I'll just have an espresso."

"Right. I'll be back in no time."

Hermione practically fled from her chair. She got in line at the counter and shook her head into her hands. Not only had she been daydreaming about the woman before she'd arrived, but once she did, Hermione decided to leer at her as well. Her unconscious was slowly seeping into her conscious thoughts and actions. She tried to shush them now and squeezed her eyes shut, but it was too late. Her reaction to seeing her in the flesh after dreaming of her in the abstract was confirmation.

She had a crush on Narcissa Black – mother to her former schoolmate, ex-wife to a Death Eater, accomplice to her own torture, and still...one of the most intelligent, beautiful, and fascinating women she'd ever come across.

That's what it all led to, wasn't it? Her excitement before each meeting with her, her preoccupation with Narcissa-themed thoughts during the day, her interest in learning more about her family and her background. Bloody hell, perhaps it started even further back: when she, for some reason, gave such a damn about insulting her on that first day they'd met again.

Seeing her in Muggle clothes just made her that much more real. Her high end wizarding robes had served as a constant reminder of who this woman was and where she came from. In a Muggle dress and tights, she was just a woman who captivated her. Simple as that.

Hermione glanced over at her, sitting at their table and sifting her long hair through her fingers. Since she returned to her shop after the sharp letter she'd sent all those weeks ago, Hermione had noticed how she would slowly push her hair back from her face, and even then, the gesture entranced her.

 _Bloody hell_ , Hermione thought. _You're losing it, Granger. Just calm down and pretend it was an hour ago. When you were just meeting a woman for coffee and discussing a novel._

From the clothes and movements of her reading partner, Hermione's gaze traveled back to herself. She looked down at her loose jeans and the slightly oversized dark purple knit top she wore. It frayed at the shoulders – in an effort to look edgy, but which someone like Narcissa would no doubt find horrifying – and showed a white camisole underneath. She pursed her lips and wondered why she hadn't tried a little harder with her clothes. A scuff marred the top of her trainers. _Damn it all. I'm a child, and she's..._

"What can I get you?"

Hermione snapped back from her reveries and realized she wasn't sure what she actually wanted.

"Um...one espresso," she began, "Aaaaand – what's less bitter than a straight espresso?"

The barista looked at her as if she were stupid.

"Literally any of the other espresso-based drinks," the girl drawled in return.

"Okay," Hermione said. "Then the cappuccino?"

The barista quickly rang up her total, then told her they'd bring the drinks over to her table when they were ready.

In her scuffed shoes, faded jeans, and frayed top, she walked slowly back to her elegant companion. She rubbed her palms on her jeans, gathered her courage, and sat down across from her again.

"They'll bring our drinks over soon," she muttered, hardly looking up, and began shoving the books and notes on magical creatures back into her bag. As she did, however, a cold white hand reached over and rested atop her own. Hermione's fingers involuntarily flexed upward, hoping to feel a bit more of Narcissa's palm with the back of her knuckles. Her eyes finally levelled with those of the woman across from her, and if she were hoping for some momentous declaration, she would be disappointed.

"You shouldn't be reading and writing about such subjects in the middle of a Muggle cafe, Miss Granger."

A reprimand. Wonderful – as if Hermione needed another reminder that she was a Muggleborn mess of a young girl. Her frustrations bled into her response.

"I have taken the proper precautions, Ms. Black. The book covers are charmed, and my notes should only be legible to a person who actually takes the time to translate my scrawl, which apparently you did while I was away."

Narcissa's head tilted slightly and her brow furrowed. "Perhaps if you had greeted me properly rather than stare at me for five minutes then run away as soon as I sat, you could have told me what you're doing here early and what all these other books and notes are."

Hermione felt her cheeks grow red hot after the staring comment, but she tried to push forward anyways. "I arrive late, you criticize me. I arrive early, and you suggest that I'm being unmannerly."

"So you _did_ actively try to get here early," Narcissa said with a supercilious smirk.

"No," Hermione lied. "I had to get some work done, so I thought I'd do it here. If not, I might have arrived late and fallen victim to your critiques. It seems, however, that I must endure them either way."

Hermione closed her eyes and heaved an exhausted sigh. She wondered why this couldn't be easier and why they could just bypass the snide remarks. Then, she remembered who she was talking to.

"If my company is such a trial for you, Miss Granger, then perhaps we should end these meetings."

Narcissa's voice was hard and cut deep. When Hermione really looked at her, she noticed how her eyes undermined her words, which seemed uncaring and frigid. Her eyes, however, looked tired and, behind her cold exterior, Hermione intuited that this woman felt more insulted than she let on.

"No, of course not," Hermione said, perhaps a little too quickly. "I really enjoy these meetings. I look forward to them, in fact." She swallowed a dry lump in her throat after that admission. "I'd just rather we skip the part where we both act like we're enemies and just cut straight to the wonderful discussions we always have."

The stoicism that overcame Narcissa's features just a moment ago began to recede. Rather than respond to Hermione in words, she merely reached down into her bag and pulled out her copy of _The Age of Innocence_ , complete with the small post-its Hermione had lended her poking out from the pages.

A barista then appeared at their table, dropped off their two drinks, and quickly disappeared again. She'd placed them on the wrong sides however, so Narcissa switched them and took a sip of her espresso. Hermione watched her features, hoping she'd like it since this was a new spot.

"Good?" She dared to ask.

"Yes, very." She took another sip, then placed the cup on the table again and began speaking. "I enjoyed the novel, but I'm still not sure what to make of the characters themselves."

Hermione had to look down quickly and hide her beaming smile because _this_ was an olive branch. Narcissa knew she always liked talking about the characters – their motivations, their journeys – and the pureblood witch would usually rush her through these points because she wanted to talk about her ineffable little moments instead.

"I agree," Hermione responded, still trying to mask her happiness. "The main character Newland is especially…"

"Exasperating."

"Yes!" Hermione laughed. "I was about to say something else, but 'exasperating' is good. So you would've rather he left his fiance to be with the Countess?"

"I would have rather he did _something_ ," Narcissa replied disdainfully and took another sip of her espresso. "Instead, he just vacillated between what society expected and what he wanted."

"I do like the Countess, though."

"Why is that?"

 _She reminds me of you_ , Hermione wanted to say. She knew she would never dare though because that admission would only bring up a host of other questions about exactly _why_ an aristocratic, mysterious woman, recently separated from her husband and driving a lover mad with longing, would remind her of Narcissa.

Instead, Hermione shrugged and gave another answer that focused more on what the Countess represented rather than who she reminded her of. From there, the conversation took the usual twists and turns through plot and character and then finally to the gestures and scenes Narcissa always pinpointed and Hermione always loved.

"What did you think of the ending?" Hermione finally asked.

Narcissa grew contemplative and pondered the question while flicking the pages of her book with the side of her forefinger. Their espresso and cappuccino cups were long since drained, but Hermione spun her cup on its ceramic dish as she waited for Narcissa's answer.

"It's left in some...in between space."

Hermione nodded. "Wharton often writes endings like that. If you don't like them, I wouldn't suggest reading her _The House of Mirth_. That ending made me throw the book across the room."

Narcissa's shoulders raised slightly in a small laugh, no more than a short exhalation of breath.

"Then," Narcissa said, "The author enjoys forcing her readers to dwell in uncertainty."

"'Dwell in uncertainty'?" Hermione cocked her head to one side. "That phrase rings a bell, but I can't place it."

"Your Mr. Keats." Hermione's look must have been a questioning one because Narcissa continued. "I've been reading his letters."

"Oh? I can't say that I've read too many. I'm glad to hear you enjoyed him so much that you've continued reading him."

Hermione then noticed a shy smile flit across Narcissa features – the same smile that she'd shown after Hermione had complimented her acting last week. Merlin, she'd have to keep notes on what sort of comments triggered that reaction because it was a beautiful gesture, simultaneously mysterious and real.

"They're very good. In fact, there are moments where his prose reaches the poetry of his verse. It's thrilling to read and suddenly come across a vivid phrase or image."

Hermione felt herself nod in intellectual sympathy. This woman and her intuitive depths as a reader were going to drown her senses any second now, and Hermione had to keep her head above water. _Just get through this conversation, and you can deal with whatever is happening later._

"But yes," Hermione abruptly declared. "I think what you mentioned earlier – about Newland's inability to decide on things – leads to the ending."

Narcissa looked puzzled for a moment, but then caught on to the subject change. She agreed, and the literary conversation devolved from there. Hermione felt ready to leave and reevaluate her internal monologue over the past couple hours. Narcissa seemed to intuit this need, although she wondered why. Rather than end the conversation with her usual query regarding the next reading, Narcissa surprised Hermione by bringing up another source of interest.

"Don't think I have forgotten about the books you were working with before my arrival, Miss Granger."

Hermione's eyebrows shot up slightly, and she once again felt awkward and caught on the defensive, as she had when Narcissa first began questioning her after she arrived.

"It's just a bit of nonsense really. Something to occupy my time when I'm not working at the shop."

Narcissa gazed directly into Hermione's eyes, almost as if she could look right through them, then smirked. "You know, you may be one of the worst liars I've ever come across."

"I happen to be a very good liar," Hermione replied, trying not to feel offended. Narcissa's gaze again pierced through her, and a glimmer of understanding shined in her eyes for a moment.

"You may not be lying to me," Narcissa ventured and seemed to be realizing her words as she spoke. "But you _are_ lying to someone about what you're doing with those books. Most likely yourself."

Hermione felt her jaw slacken. With just a few sentences and one moment's observation, Narcissa saw right through the game she was trying to play with her own mind. Hermione was both impressed and unnerved by the woman's perceptiveness. Narcissa, for her part, seemed to take the comment in stride and began readying herself to leave, replacing her copy of _The Age of Innocence_ in her purse and asking after the check.

"I already took care of that," Hermione muttered, still digesting Narcissa's previous statement.

This entire afternoon was turning into a study of how Hermione was deluding herself – with both her feelings toward Narcissa and her research into magical creatures. She tried to cast both as passing fancies or just something to occupy her time, and yet there was much more lying beneath.

She wondered if Narcissa felt the tremors within their own relationship. It took Narcissa almost no time at all to see her books and her notebook bursting to capacity with findings to realize that her research interests weren't as frivolous as she'd like to pass off. Yet, there were no books or pages that held the overbrimming thoughts and feelings regarding the pureblood witch who'd caught her fancy. Somehow, though, Narcissa seemed capable of reading her as well as she read a poem or a novel. She looked past the surface and the story, then delved into the moments and gestures that defined a life.

Hermione felt caught in a web of inactions, and all these realizations crashed heavily upon her in the middle of a Muggle cafe with Narcissa Black sitting across from her.

Narcissa stood from her chair and waited for Hermione to do the same, which she eventually (albeit slowly) did. They walked together to the door, where they both took their coats and readied themselves for the last vestiges of winter in the London air. Hermione haphazardly shrugged into her coat, while Narcissa slowly slipped into hers, a deep burgundy color that matched her shoes. She watched in silence as Narcissa pulled her long hair out from her coat and let it fall down her back again. Without even thinking, Hermione reached out only slightly and touched the smooth platinum shine with the tips of her fingers. Then, Narcissa was gone, walking through the door as a tall, older gentleman held it for her.

Hermione quickly ran through the open door as well, trying to keep up with Narcissa, but they got caught in a massive crowd almost immediately. Narcissa turned her head back slightly, looking for Hermione and glad to find her in the crush.

"Is there a good apparition point hereabout?"

Hermione nodded, then grabbed Narcissa's elbow and helped guide her through the crowd.

Once they emerged from the mass of people, Hermione began to reluctantly slip her hand out of Narcissa's arm, but as she did, she felt Narcissa press her elbow in, essentially trapping Hermione's hand against her side. Hermione was surprised to feel the movement, amidst the London crowd and passersby, but she did nonetheless. She felt her cheeks warm at the sensation, and she kept her hand in the crook of Narcissa's slender arm, continuing to guide her to the apparition point.

They arrived in a few minutes to an abandoned old Muggle schoolyard. Hermione took Narcissa around a corner, where they were secluded from those strolling along the sidewalk. Hermione stopped them both, but said nothing.

Narcissa, her arm still supporting the soft weight of Hermione's hand, turned toward the girl and seemed to be contemplating her next words. After a few more moments of this hesitant and potent silence, Hermione was about to bid her farewell, but then Narcissa finally spoke.

"Would you care for dinner some time this week?"

"With you?" Hermione asked, somewhat shocked.

"No, Miss Granger, I was asking whether you plan on eating any dinners at all this week."

If her tone were not enough, Narcissa's raised eyebrow and bored expression hinted at her sarcasm.

For her part, Hermione felt her throat go dry and her palms get slightly sweaty in an instant. She knew Narcissa wasn't asking for another book meeting or a casual afternoon tea. This was different, and both women seemed to understand the underlying request. However much Narcissa might like to think her facade impenetrable, Hermione had already picked up on the tics and gestures that revealed this woman's inner workings.

Narcissa was nervous. She was walking on thin ice and could probably feel the current rushing underneath. Hermione saw it in her tense jaw and felt it in her arm that pressed her hand imperceptibly tighter. She was reminded again of their first afternoon tea, when Narcissa sat there waiting for Hermione to join her and holding herself as rigidly as possible.

"Let's do dinner," Hermione finally answered, while giving Narcissa's arm a short squeeze. The gesture seemed to knock both women back into the moment, though, since Narcissa cleared her throat and unravelled herself from Hermione's grasp.

"Then, expect my owl in the coming days with where to meet and when." Narcissa gave her directions, all while keeping her eyes trained elsewhere, either on the cold hard ground or slightly to the left of Hermione's face.

Hermione knew she wouldn't be able to catch that gaze again, so she merely agreed and bid Narcissa farewell. The older witch nodded and apparated on the spot.

After she'd left, Hermione heaved a sigh somewhere between relief and excitement. The past couple hours had thrown her for a loop, and she felt in sore need of some solid ground. It was times like these where Hermione wished she had more friends, especially ones who weren't so irrevocably tied to her world, its prejudices and rules. She knew, however, that she couldn't let this web continue to weave itself into oblivion within her overactive mind.

She was about to disapparate as well, but at the last minute, she thought against it and started walking. In the absence of that slender arm to hold onto, Hermione buried her hands in her coat and glided seamlessly back into the stream of Muggles out on a Sunday afternoon.

* * *

 **A/N: Hi everyone! Sorry for the longer delay between chapters. I had another kind of chapter (dissertation! ew!) due last week, so I had to take a break from these lovely witches. Expect the usual updates from here on out though. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! Please let me know what you liked and what you're hoping to see next! As always, thank you for all the lovely responses, follows, and favorites!**

 **By the way, if any of you have tumblr, I'm on there as riverlandsred. Feel free to give me a follow! I'd love to get to know more of you. :)**


	11. Chapter 11

Breathing. Deep breathing. Lying flat on her back, Hermione tried catching her breath and focusing in on it. Her hips and thighs ached, but she tried to breathe past those sensations and center herself again. She wiped at a trickle of sweat that had slid from her forehead, down her temple, and into her hair.

Breathing. In and out. After a few moments, she turned to her side in a fetal position, and although she shouldn't, she opened her eyes and glanced through the dim room.

Ginny lied in an almost mirrored position next to her. Her red hair sat knotted on the top of her head, and her back also glistened with sweat. This had been _her_ idea, Hermione thought, but now as she lied in repose, Hermione hardly had the energy to resent the overactive girl for it.

When she'd got in touch with Ginny a few days prior, Hermione hinted at her need to "talk something out," and Ginny suggested they do this first. She always chided Hermione on her need to balance out her mind with some good, intense activity. Hermione hadn't expected this, though.

"Very slowly come back up to your sitting positions."

Ginny fluidly moved back into position, while Hermione grunted and rolled her way back into it.

The instructor said a few more words about staying centered and true and intuitive in all the threadbare phrases these yogis used. Hermione just wanted to get up, get water, and get out.

Finally, the session ended, and Ginny turned towards Hermione with a beaming smile on her face.

"I'm going to kill you," Hermione deadpanned.

"Why?!" Ginny gasped in innocence, although she already knew the answer.

"You didn't say it was a _hot_ yoga class, Ginny," Hermione said. "I nearly passed out multiple times."

"Nah! You made it! And I'm sure you feel amazing right now."

"No, actually. I feel awful. This can't be healthy. Is this even real yoga? Or is it just something people have added onto it in order to lose weight?"

Ginny shrugged and began rolling up her mat, still a bright smile on her face from the workout.

"You just need to start working out more."

"Says the professional Quidditch player." Hermione shook her head and began rolling up her mat as well. "But seriously, I'm going to look up if hot yoga is even a sanctioned form of yoga."

"Blooooody Merlin," Ginny groaned. "You and your fact-checking. Let's go get some drinks. Put toxins back into our body after getting rid of them."

"Normally, I'd critique that kind of thinking, but right now, that sounds amazing."

Fifteen minutes later and after some more jibes about hot yoga, Hermione and Ginny sat at the bar in The Apothecary. Ridiculous name for a wizarding bar, Hermione thought, but Ginny kept raving about their mixed drinks. She ordered them both an alcoholic version of the Draught of Living Death, then quickly got down to business.

"So what was it you wanted to talk about, Mione?"

The immediate question startled Hermione, although she should've expected it from Ginny. Perhaps other women had their female friends who would talk around an issue or let you just silently work out a problem on your own. Not Ginny. She attacked a problem directly, much like she attacked the goals in Quidditch. Nothing or no one daunted her, which was probably why she and Harry made such a strong couple.

"I think I may need one drink first," Hermione replied through a grimace.

"Oh," Ginny gasped. "So a big topic then?"

"I guess so. It's turning into one."

Ginny nodded and decided to switch gears for a moment in order to give Hermione time to gain some liquid courage. She caught Hermione up on what she'd been up to. Ginny had just returned from a touring season of the Holyhead Harpies that consisted mostly of friendly exhibition matches, gearing up toward the next World Cup.

"Harry told me you guys were doing great!"

"Yeah, it's been very exciting. Friendlies are always more fun than real matches. Not as much pressure, y'know? But we did very well. I'm looking forward to our next season and to seeing what happens when we get serious again."

"Well, you can only get better, right?"

"That's the hope," Ginny replied and took a couple sips of her drink. "Wow, that's strong."

Hermione agreed and cringed through another sip. The drink tasted fine, but there was lots of alcohol in there.

"But like you said," Ginny continued. "I hope it means that we'll only go up from here. Nerves are nasty things though, so we'll see how the rookies handle it."

Hermione hesitated a moment, then decided to ask anyways.

"Aren't _you_ a rookie, Ginny?"

Ginny was bringing her drink up to her lips for another sip, but stopped instantly after Hermione's question. The only Weasley girl stared at Hermione and finally gave her a questioning look.

"I mean," Hermione continued. "It's your first full season, isn't it?"

"True," Ginny said softly, her drink still hanging in the air. "That doesn't make me a rookie, though."

"Isn't the definition of a rookie someone who––"

"I know what the term means, genius. But I _was_ on the team last season."

"...For half the season."

"Yeah! I was still already _on the team_. I've been through the ropes. I've ridden the bench. Then I made a few big plays and proved myself. So I'm _not_ a rookie."

Hermione took another gulp of her drink – it went down easy now – and raised her hands in mock surrender.

"Sorry. Of course. Ginny Weasley, Chaser, number eighteen, most decidedly _not_ a rookie."

Ginny raised her glass in response. The two women toasted to each other, then drained their glasses of the cocktail's last remnants.

"What's in that?" Hermione asked.

"I never ask."

They laughed together and ordered another round. Hermione never drank much, but with Ginny, she felt comfortable letting loose and enjoying herself with some added fuel. While they waited for their drinks, Ginny made an abrupt subject change.

"Oh! Harry kept reminding me to ask you whether you're going to the Ministry Ball at the end of the month."

Hermione rolled her eyes and groaned in response.

"Don't give me that bollocks," Ginny chided. "Please try to come this time – not for Harry's sake, but for mine. Without you, I'm stuck with Ron and Harry's work friends. It's a sausage fest and so boring."

Hermione laughed out loud and could only imagine the horrors Ginny would endure alone in such a group. Yet, Hermione hadn't attended a ball in over two years. The camera flashes and the whirl of strangers looking to meet a member of the Golden Trio had grown to a nauseating pitch. Finally, she'd had enough of it and stopped attending Ministry functions entirely. She refused to be used as a prop piece in order to draw in more people for the Ministry's benefit. Hermione thought of the Ministry-stamped envelopes littering the kitchen table in her apartment and figured the invitation to this Ministry Ball lied in the pile.

"I don't know, Ginny," Hermione whined. "It's such a chore, and I always end up leaving in a rage."

"C'mon, Mione!" Ginny clutched onto her friend's arm in a classic pose of supplication. "I'll make it up to you. I won't take you to another yoga class, and I'll clean your apartment or something."

Hermione chuckled in response, and with Ginny's puppy-dog eyes leveled at her, she finally gave her answer.

"Alright, but _only_ because I never want to do hot yoga again. Otherwise, you'd be on your own."

Ginny cheered in victory. Hermione wondered whether the alcohol was already going to her head because she'd caved in to that request way too easily. But no, she knew she was a lightweight, but not _that_ light. She was doing this for her friend, who obviously needed a rescue, and the firm Weasley hug she received right then was recompense enough.

Just when Hermione was beginning to relax after their Ministry Ball discussion, Ginny brought the conversation back to its original intent.

"Alright! Enough nonsense," Ginny intoned and slapped her palm against the bar. "You've had your drink. Now, it's time to spill your guts."

As if on cue, the bartender came back around and dropped off their second drinks. Hermione took a gulp of hers, exhaled loudly, then began.

"I'm attracted to someone, and I shouldn't be attracted to her."

"Yessssss! I was hoping this was a relationship thing!"

"It's not a relationship. It won't be. I just need to figure out what to do next."

"Why won't it be a relationship? Give me the details." Ginny swiveled around in the bar stool and made sure to look directly at Hermione as she spoke. Hermione noticed this and gave her friend a small smile. "Is she a Muggle? Because remember last time…"

"No," Hermione cut her short. "She's a witch."

"Okay. Do I know her?"

"You know _of_ her, but no, I don't think you know her."

"Alright, so a famous witch."

"Perhaps not famous. At least, that's not the right word. She's...well-known."

"Same thing. Famous. Is that why you think you shouldn't be attracted to her?"

"No," Hermione muttered. "Well, maybe yes?"

"Because I should remind you, you're kind of famous yourself." Ginny interjected with a note of sarcasm. Hermione elbowed her friend.

"I'm not sure. Everything with her is all too jumbled up between the public and the personal, what I knew of her versus what I know now."

"Can I just ask who it is? I think that might help."

Ginny watched as Hermione seemed to undergo something between pain and embarrassment. Her shoulders slumped slightly, and she stared off at the table nearest them. Hermione's eyes darted back at her multiple times, so Ginny just waited for her friend to ready herself.

"You promise you won't freak out?"

This was going to be good, Ginny thought.

"I promise."

"Alright." Hermione took a deep breath and another sip of her drink. "She's Narcissa Black."

The name took half a second to register in Ginny's mind, perhaps because Ginny was so used to hearing "Narcissa Malfoy" instead, but once it did, the reaction was unsurprising.

" _What?!_ " Ginny practically shouted. The patrons at the tables around them simultaneously jolted at the loud noise, but Hermione just turned toward her drink again and took the largest gulp yet. Once she finished, Hermione noticed that Ginny's jaw was still on the floor, and her eyes were the size of golf balls. "You're joking."

Hermione shook her head and tried not to feel crestfallen at her friend's reaction. She knew this would be the reaction from anyone she confessed her secret to, but she decided it was better to rip the bandaid and get it over with than to carry this burden within her. She needed to talk, and once Ginny got over the immediate shock, she hoped she would listen.

It took a few minutes of silence and sipped drinks and continued questioning looks from Ginny, but finally, she seemed ready to continue.

"But she's…"

"A former Death Eater? Old enough to be my mother? Raised to hate people like me? Straight?"

"Yes. All of those."

"I know," Hermione groaned. "But I don't know, Ginny. When I'm with her, all that stuff just seems to fall away."

"When you're _with_ her?" Ginny asked in surprise. "Wait a second. You need to back up and tell me exactly what's been happening."

Hermione took another deep breath and another long sip, then caught Ginny up on what she'd missed over the past couple months. She told Ginny about their first encounter and how she'd slyly brought up the night at Malfoy Manor. Ginny was proud of her friend for sticking it to a Slytherin and a Black to boot, but then the story turned around as Hermione described her regret and how she'd sent Narcissa a note of apology.

"Why? You did nothing wrong. She deserves more than a weak insult, in my opinion."

"No, she doesn't, Ginny. And if you keep up that line of thinking, then maybe I should just stop talking now. For this, I'd just talk to your brother."

"Whoa. Calm down," Ginny responded, her tone fierce. "I'm just making a comment. Besides, if whatever this is continues, you're going to have to start getting used to the fact that almost every sane person's reaction to Narcissa Black is going to be negative."

"Don't you think I realize that? All I'm asking you is for a tiny bit of trust – in me and in my judgement."

"I can do that. But again, you'll still need a bit of patience. I have to work through an entire lifetime of Malfoy-bashing, not to mention the fact that her husband directly contributed to probably the worst year of my life."

Hermione nodded. She hadn't forgotten that, of course, but Narcissa was completely separated from Lucius – both in literal and abstract terms – in her mind. Considering his actions as a reflection upon Narcissa seemed nonsensical to Hermione. Once she put herself in Ginny's shoes, however, she understood why this could be difficult on multiple levels. So she actively reminded herself of all this.

"Of course. Sorry, Ginny. I hadn't thought about that. Can I continue? Or would you rather not?"

"Keep going," Ginny declared. "You're my friend, and I want to help you however I can."

After that exchange, Hermione tried to soften the tone of Narcissa's written response to Hermione's apology, then she quickly skipped to the part where Narcissa returned to her shop and surreptitiously took her out to tea. From there, Hermione described their meetings since then and how they'd read a different book each week, then meet to discuss it. She tried to convey to Ginny how, with each meeting, she felt a stronger connection to the woman.

"So you meet and talk about books. Sounds exciting." Hermione rolled her eyes at Ginny's response and tried to ignore it.

"With her, it is. I don't think I've ever felt more comfortable being myself – being smart and a bit obsessive, y'know? – with anyone else besides you guys." Hermione waved her hand between them, but Ginny understood that the gesture extended outward to Harry and even Ron as well. "It's weird. You'd think she'd make me completely _un_ comfortable. But in fact, it's the exact opposite."

"Well, consider what you guys talk about when you meet. Of course, you're comfortable."

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked.

"I mean, all you two do is talk about books. I'm pretty sure that's the most comfortable topic in the world for you. It's hard to muck that up," Ginny stated. "The first time you met, though, as soon as you wanted to discuss _real_ topics – y'know, like your shared personal past – she completely shut you down."

"I'm sure it's difficult for her to talk about all that," Hermione muttered.

"Difficult for _her_?" Ginny cried. "I'm sorry, maybe I'm forgetting your description of that night, but if I'm remembering it correctly, _you_ were the one getting tortured by _her_ psycho sister."

Hermione spun her drink around on its coaster, trying to find the proper response. With her arm extended, Ginny quickly spotted the scar still carved in red on her arm. She had always respected Hermione for not glamouring it away or devising a more permanent concealment charm, as she knew Hermione could.

"By acting as if that night never happened, it's like you're trying to cover up that scar. You've never wanted to do that because you rightly believe that the past _needs_ to be remembered. Yet, your––," Ginny's vocabulary flitted through "friendship," "relationship," and a few other words, "––whatever it is you have with her seems to have been founded on the idea that you won't talk about _that stuff_."

Hermione flagged down the bartender and waved her and Ginny's empty glasses at him as he passed. Ginny waited for Hermione to respond to her words, and she finally did by dropping her head in her hands and groaning.

"You're right," Ginny heard through Hermione's fingers. When Hermione finally lifted her face from her hands, she declared, "To be honest, I'm horrified just at the idea of talking about the past with her."

"Then that means that you _have to_ do it...and soon."

"How, though? 'Great observation about that scene, Ms. Black. So remember that night your family captured me and my friends during the war?'"

"Wait. 'Ms. Black?' You're still calling her by her last name?"

"She's very formal."

"She's a stuck-up pureblood, more like." Hermione gave her a forbidding look, and Ginny raised her hands. "Back to how you do it. You gather your courage, hold on tight, and just _do it_. It's times like these that make me question your sorting."

At Ginny's words, Hermione's hand lunged toward Ginny and clamped down hard on her shoulder. Ginny immediately yelped in pain.

"Sorry! Stupid of me! Didn't mean it! Please retract your claws!"

Hermione let her friend go, but felt sure that she'd learned never to question her house. Hermione was a Gryffindor and proud. The Sorting Hat _may_ have considered Ravenclaw for a moment, but Gryffindor was where she belonged and where she'd reached her full potential as a thinker and friend.

"You're lucky my wand is down there in my bag," Ginny said, while massaging her shoulder, "Or else I'd respond with a hex that one of the girls taught me last month. You wouldn't feel your hands for a good hour."

"Whoa," Hermione wondered, instantly forgetting Ginny's previous insult at the news of a charm she hadn't heard of. "That sounds like it'd be particularly useful during a match."

"Right? Too bad everyone on my team has integrity."

"Spoken like a true Slytherin."

Ginny responded to Hermione's own house-oriented jab with a strong shove in the side. Suddenly Hermione understood why Ginny was considered one of the more aggressive chasers on her team. The girls laughed together for a moment, then Hermione got back on topic.

"Well, we're meeting up for dinner later this week, and there'll be no book discussion. So maybe that would be a good moment."

"Sounds like it! You have to broach the subject, Hermione. If not, you're just getting ahead of yourself, thinking you have some deep connection with this person, when you haven't really connected outside of books." Hermione nodded in response, then drank the rest of her cocktail. She slammed the empty glass onto the bar, as if to seal her agreement with Ginny. Ginny did the same and nodded in affirmation.

"Who thought of a non-book related dinner, by the way?" Ginny asked. "Couldn't have been you."

"She did. She asked me out when we met up on Sunday."

"Asked you out?"

"Excuse me for deluding myself and putting a certain spin on it," Hermione muttered through a chuckle. Ginny laughed as well. "But really, what do you think? Should I just bury what I'm feeling?" Before Ginny could answer though, Hermione continued. "I don't think I can though, Ginny. She's...magnificent. Like have you ever seen her up close?"

"Oh God," Ginny groaned. "I think the alcohol is starting to get to you."

Hermione slowly shook her head, which only made her look more drunk. Ginny stifled a laugh at her friend's expense.

"She's gorgeous. Then, when you pair her outsides with her insides, it's like" and Hermione completed her thought by acting out her head exploding.

"Wow. Hermione Granger running out of words, using phrases like 'outsides' and 'insides.' I'm surprised and terrified."

Ginny had already lost Hermione at that point. The curly-haired Gryffindor, heroine of a war, and brightest witch of her age was staring off into space with a ridiculous grin on her face.

"You're no use to me now," Ginny complained with a laugh. "Come on, you lightweight. I'm taking you home. Check!"

* * *

 **A/N: Hey everyone! This chapter was actually going to be a two-parter, but real life has been insane. I thought I'd post this though, since I've had it done for a while and stands well enough on its own. After last chapter, this fic broke the 200 followers mark, so let me just say THANK YOU! You all are incredibly kind and very patient. I know it's a sloooow burn, but that's how I like it. Trust me, folks, once the fire really starts, it's gonna be an inferno. :]**

 **So what do you guys think? How's this date going to go now that Ginny's pushing Hermione to confront Narcissa? Can't wait to hear everyone's thoughts! The next chapter will be coming soon!**


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: You thought I'd abandoned this, didn't you? ;)**

* * *

Narcissa walked swiftly through the London evening streets. Her coat billowed out behind her, and she relished the cool air drifting against her neck and sides. The temperature may still be clinging to the last gasps of winter, but Narcissa felt overly warm. Whether it was from her unconsciously fast-paced walk or not, she neither knew nor cared to find out. She sensed a few strands of hair loosen from her bun, and she softly sifted her fingernails against her scalp, placing the errant locks back where they belonged. It seemed that even the charms on her hair were feeling somewhat strained.

It began that afternoon when Andromeda had coincidentally arrived at Black Hall just as she was beginning to plan out her outfit for the evening.

 _Andromeda looked at the dress and heels combination, then pursed her lips._

" _What's the matter with it?" Narcissa asked, knowing her sister's looks._

" _Where was it you said you were going again?"_

" _A small restaurant Draco mentioned to me the other day. He took Astoria there once, and they both enjoyed it. He said it wasn't formal, so I thought a dress like this would be fine."_

 _Andromeda looked back at her for a moment with a small smile on her face, but said nothing._

" _What?"_

" _Nothing at all," Andromeda lightly replied, although Narcissa knew there was some hidden meaning behind that smile. "The dress is lovely, but why don't you try something different for tonight? After all, you two haven't really gone out together in this capacity, have you?"_

" _What do you mean?" Why was Andromeda being even more difficult to penetrate than usual? And why did she continue smirking?_

" _I mean, dinner is quite different from tea or coffee. So perhaps you should wear something quite different."_

" _I think it's enough that I'm dressing Muggle again. You should have seen her face the first moment she saw me the other day. I thought someone had cast a body-bind on her."_

 _Andromeda laughed. "I'm sure she was just impressed, darling. You do look rather good in these Muggle clothes."_

 _Narcissa felt her heart stutter at the thought that she'd impressed the intelligent young witch. She remembered (yet again) how the girl's eyes brightened when she'd looked up from her notebook and seen her. She may have chided her for abruptly leaving to get their coffees, but in all honesty, Narcissa needed a few moments to reestablish her composure after being the subject of such a powerful gaze._

" _Thank you, sister," Narcissa replied, once she pulled herself back to the present situation. "So what do you suggest instead of this?" She gestured toward the outfit spread across the chaise in her dressing room._

 _Andromeda seemed to ponder the question for a moment, then a light seemed to go off in her head. She instantly walked into Narcissa's closet without warning and a moment later emerged with a set of clothes that Narcissa had only one reaction to._

" _Absolutely not."_

" _Oh Cissy, please!"_

" _No, I didn't even want to buy that, but you forced me into the purchase. I refuse to be forced again."_

" _But your figure in this is just magnificent, and you know it!"_

" _What does it matter how my figure looks?" Narcissa asked, feeling her cheeks redden with each word._

 _Andromeda's smirk grew even more, and in answer to her sister's question, she shook the garment and extended it toward Narcissa. They engaged in a staring contest then: Andromeda with her smirk, and Narcissa with her scowl. Finally, the older sister won when Narcissa huffed in exasperation and pulled the clothes from her sister's outstretched hand._

 _Before she could move her hand away, however, Andromeda caught it in hers._

" _Enjoy yourself, Cissy."_

 _Andromeda smiled warmly at her sister now, the previous smirk leaving her face. Narcissa sensed something lying beneath her words and expressions, but she kept herself from delving too deep. She'd shared much with her sister over the past few weeks, about their past, their family, and even her new friendship with Miss Granger, and her sister grew more attached to her with each revealed intimacy._

" _It's just a dinner, Andy," Narcissa muttered. "Nothing to fret over." Her actions, however, belied her words, as she continued staring at the outfit in her hands and wondering whether it was the right choice._

" _Of course," Andromeda replied, reintroducing that previous lightness to their conversation. "I'll be off then!"_

 _She already began moving towards the fireplace in Narcissa's dressing room and picked up some floo powder from the mantlepiece._

" _Didn't you say you needed to borrow a recipe or something? I could call for Whishee."_

" _Oh! Right!" Andromeda gasped, her hand still clutching the floo powder. "I'll come back for it. Or actually, just owl it to me. No rush!"_

 _Andromeda spoke her address, threw down the floo powder, and vanished in a flash. Narcissa stared into the empty fireplace, realizing that a dinner recipe couldn't have been what really brought Andromeda to her home that afternoon._

Andromeda's whirlwind visit set the rest of Narcissa's day off-kilter. She spent her bath staring at the wallpaper opposite her, hypnotized by its intricate pattern, and trying to unravel both her sister's quick visit and her own developing nerves about that night's dinner. Her hands shook as she applied her makeup, and she spent far too long in front of her full-length mirror, fidgeting with the clothes her sister had chosen and which she still felt uncomfortable in.

Now, she strode through the evening crowds and tried to keep an eye on the street signs. Once she made it to the restaurant, all her apprehensions and misgivings would no doubt die down. She kept repeating this encouragement in her head, and yet she knew that it would perhaps take much more to ease nerves that've been strained since she first impulsively asked the girl to dinner.

She sifted through the London evening crowds, but her wandering mind made her usually fluid movements jerky and unsure.

Perhaps it was just her relative isolation from the world for the past few years that contributed to her nerves how. She was Narcissa Black, after all, and she commanded every social event she'd ever attended in her life. From elaborate pureblood balls to haphazard Slytherin House celebrations, her cool reserve never left her. She knew her former social circle made a kind of game out of drawing some sign of approval from her seemingly frozen face. No one ever won that game, but now…

A passerby clipped her shoulder in his own quick strides toward his destination. He turned and offered an apologetic, "Pardon, ma'am." Rather than stop and ridicule the Muggle for daring to touch her, Narcissa merely raised a hand in acknowledgement and continued walking and worrying.

 _About what, though?_ The question rang in her head for what felt like the hundredth time that day, and as an answer, all her disordered mind would offer was Miss Granger's upturned face, all wide eyes and reddened cheeks.

Narcissa was more than aware of her own beauty. Other women might scoff and deflect homages to their physical appearance, but Narcissa never felt any need for such subterfuge. From the moment she came out in society, she recognized the looks and compliments toward her femininity. When Lucius first began courting her, he offered her the same courtesies, but after a few failed attempts, he changed tactics. Instead of paying her compliments, he just stood beside her, sporting the same proud look and impenetrable facade. The first time he did this, she remembered feeling surprised, and as he continued to partner her in dances and downward glances, months down the line and even after Andromeda had eloped, she thought, "He would do."

Throughout their marriage, their indomitable front had carried countless Ministry resolutions, thrown impeccable social events, intimidated the Mudbloods and blood traitors who challenged them, and even unabashedly harbored an escaped Azkaban prisoner, as well as the most powerful Dark Wizard of their time. They hadn't cared, and when Lucius's mask fell under the weight of an Azkaban stay and continued humiliations, she carried on for both of them and for their son. It was often exhausting, but this was her role. More than that, this was _her_.

In just a matter of weeks, Miss Granger brought everything she knew about herself into question.

An old woman grabbing her arm suddenly snapped her back to the street she had unwittingly been crossing at the wrong moment.

"Careful, dear," the woman admonished her. "Those cabs stop for noone."

Narcissa whispered her thanks, barely audible over the city din, and stepped back onto the curb. She focused on the colored electric lights, which apparently gave a signal for when to cross. The lights changed, the crowd moved, and Narcissa was swept up again.

She couldn't recall the last time she had offered something to a person outside her immediate family. A throwaway phrase, a lifted eyebrow, or a noncommittal hum usually worked well enough, but with Miss Granger, none of these sufficed.

First, the girl inspired her exasperation – what with her pathetic initial insult and her subsequent apologies. Then, she inspired her interest. Why would the most famous witch of her time seek a life of seclusion amongst Muggles? This was the hook that caught in her lip, stinging her and pulling her closer almost against her will.

She wasn't sure what to call the feelings Miss Granger inspired now, after weeks of literary conversations that never tread the personal but always skirted the intimate.

She'd already revealed too much. Circuitously, yes, but her truest self was further unveiled with each innocuous meeting. She had recited lines of poetry, play-acted with her in public, smiled at her stubborn need for truth and facts, and even – she shuddered to remember it – drew her physically close when she could.

Narcissa had replayed their previous meeting in her head again and again. Each time, she wondered what had come over her when the Muggleborn grasped her arm in the crowd. Whatever it was, like that hook in her lip, Narcissa couldn't let Hermione's hand leave her arm, her side, her self. The sensation had reminded her of the magical knot that wrapped around her hand clasped in Severus's for their Unbreakable Vow. This physical connection prompted her plea for further contact, not associated with books or apologies, but rather only with themselves.

After her acceptance, Hermione's grip had tightened around her, and she could only draw away in response. In that moment, she had experienced something like desire, and, unused to the sensation, she instantly apparated away from this complicated, intoxicating girl and back to her family home with all its semblances of normalcy.

Every time she called her feelings what they were, she felt a shudder run through her body. In those moments, she recalled what it felt like as a teenager when, distracted on her way to classes, she would accidentally walk through the Bloody Baron. Something beyond a chill ran through her, and she'd feel half-curious at what _really_ caused that sensation.

The same feeling overcame her when in Hermione's presence, and it only grew more disconcerting when the girl touched her. She'd always been told a Mudblood's hands would sully her pureblood flesh, but instead they seemed to cleanse her.

 _What in Merlin's name am I thinking of? I've gone mad, surely. This is it. The product of all that pureblood fanaticism and the resulting limited gene pool. I'm finally going insane._

"Narcissa!"

At hearing her own name called out in the middle of Muggle London, Narcissa whirled around with exceptional speed, one hand moving inside her coat and towards her wand.

The fringes of her coat, still moving with the momentum of her spin, twirled around her legs. By the time the fabric came to a halt, Narcissa's eyes found who'd called for her. Her arm immediately fell back to her side. She took a deep breath, put her mind at peace, and tried to remember all the occlumency tips her father had passed to her and she had passed to her son.

"Miss Granger," she greeted coolly, while walking back towards the girl.

"Forgive me for calling you like that in the street," she said through a bashful smile. "I just noticed you walking past the restaurant we agreed upon. I figured you missed it."

She had. With her mind...elsewhere, she'd forgotten that she'd never been to this restaurant before and thus wouldn't recognize it as she passed. Rather than blush in embarrassment, however, as the young woman across from her had just done, she merely pursed her lips in disappointment.

"Draco must have given me wrong directions."

Hermione smiled at her admission. Although she hadn't even spoken yet, Narcissa noticed something different in the girl. Her posture seemed energized, and her smile came easily, something that usually evaded her for at least the first half hour of their meetings together.

Sometimes, Narcissa felt almost dismayed that, after weeks of meeting and talking, she still frightened the girl to some extent. She'd always relished putting people into uncomfortable situations, then using that discomfort to her benefit. Yet, with this girl, her continued nervous behavior only made Narcissa feel like some beast. Was she really so intimidating? And would there ever be a witch or wizard besides her sister and son who'd see something beneath the surface?

Narcissa usually buried these questions deep in her psyche and eventually grew used to the awkward early moments in their meetups, especially since they were always followed with a thawed warmth that surprised her.

"Shall we go in then?" Hermione asked, once again in a tone that lacked the usual apprehension.

She nodded and slipped through the door Hermione held open for her. She felt her shoulders relax in the warm dining room, and she glanced about at the rich yet comfortable setting. Draco had steered her right, and she felt a momentary surge of pride in her son for taking his girlfriend here on a date.

Slender fingers curled around her coat's collar, and she curved her neck around in surprise. Hermione smiled bravely, although the ever-present blush belied her boldness.

"May I take your coat?"

Once again, Narcissa silently nodded, then relaxed her arms at her sides, allowing the girl to pull the coat off her shoulders.

"You'd like to keep your wand, yes?" Hermione whispered into her ear. _How had she known that her wand was stowed in her coat?_ Before Narcissa could answer, she felt her wand being pressed against her palm. Narcissa wrapped her fingers around the wand and quickly placed it in her purse. In the meantime, Hermione had passed her coat over to a waiting attendant, then shrugged off her own.

Narcissa surveyed the girl's figure from top to toe and was admittedly surprised at the look her young companion had gone for. A dark blue dress enveloped her, the sashes wound about her waist and tied in a loose bow. The dress fell to mid-calf, long enough for an evening dinner, but still short enough for the semi-casual setting. Having only ever seen the girl in oversized jumpers, the figure-revealing ensemble took Narcissa by surprise.

When her gaze finally returned to Hermione's face, that same look from Hermione that arrested her attention during their last meeting caught her again. Hermione stared at her as if seeing her for the first time, then her slackened jaw broke into a toothy grin.

"Trousers?" She asked incredulously. "I never would have thought. They look very nice on you."

"Thank you," Narcissa replied, while smoothing out the fabric. "My sister's idea."

"Andromeda has good taste then."

"In some things," she muttered sarcastically. Hermione's face dropped for an almost imperceptible moment, but Narcissa caught it nevertheless. Before she could wonder why, however, the host called her attention.

"A reservation?"

"Yes," Narcissa answered. "Under Black."

The host led them to their table, situated in a corner with a few other couples nearby and thankfully not in the center of the dinner crush. Despite their relative seclusion, Narcissa reached into her purse for a moment and cast a quick _muffliato_.

They sat, and shortly thereafter, a young waiter came by and asked if they had a wine preference. Hermione deferred to Narcissa, who took the wine list and thoughtfully perused it. She chose a red, then looked to the girl for approval. Hermione quickly nodded, trusting Narcissa's judgement on the matter.

When the waiter left, both women made a show of reading the menus. Narcissa balked at beginning conversation, although, as she was the one to invite Hermione to dinner, she knew etiquette dictated that she lead proceedings. She took advantage of Hermione's seeming interest in the menu and tried to order her thoughts after nearly missing the restaurant, then getting blindsided by her companion's attire.

The wine was good. Perhaps not as high quality as what she was used to in her own home, but tolerable enough for the evening. Both women put in their orders, and the waiter took their menus and, with them, the last defense they possessed against conversation. Narcissa took a another sip of her wine, letting it wash against her palate.

"You haven't mentioned your shop in quite some time," she began. "Is business running smoothly?"

"Yes," Hermione answered. "Actually, I've decided to hire another hand. I've finally gotten to the point in sales where I can afford it, and it should give me more time to pursue my own interests outside the shop."

"And what might those interests be?"

Narcissa knew what they were. She remembered the girl's notes scattered across the coffee shop table during their last meeting. The messy scribbles regarding educational infrastructures and outreach programs for magical creatures and their ilk piqued Narcissa's interest, and since then she had wondered why exactly a person seemingly interested in staying away from the magical world still kept tabs on how to make it better – at least from her point of view.

Hermione hesitated before answering. She fiddled with the white fabric napkin in front of her and pursed her lips in meditation.

"I only really have a foggy sense of my other interests. I'm just beginning to realize that I have them."

Narcissa's brow furrowed in response.

"I guess––," Hermione began again then paused, still with those pursed lips that continued to draw Narcissa's attention. "I guess I'm still struggling with admitting that I have these interests in...well," and here she lowered her voice, "in our world. I know I want to take action, but I'm still figuring out why and how, especially after so long away from everything. I hope that makes sense."

"Yes, it does, Miss Granger."

It made more sense than Narcissa cared to admit. Indeed, the first attraction – if she could call it that, although it felt odd – of their meetings arose from Hermione's admittance of feeling like somewhat of an outsider in a world that believed it knew her all too well. Of course, Hermione struggled with too much good feeling. The wizarding world saw her as a heroine of grand proportions. Narcissa, on the other hand, struggled with the opposite. Either way, the position was the same: looking from outside in on one's self. It was like living in a neverending funhouse and beginning to wonder whether those warped reflections of yourself were the truth.

"Were these 'interests' what you were working on the other day at the cafe?" Narcissa couldn't leave well enough alone.

"Yes," Hermione replied through a smirk. "And I'm still not happy with you eavesdropping on my notes, by the way."

"You Gryffindors make it too easy."

That made Hermione laugh outright, and Narcissa allowed herself to smile as well. To her surprise, she relished their moments of playful banter. Tonight, it seemed as if Hermione was more open to the idea of her as a normal woman who _could_ make a joke, which in turn made Narcissa happy.

"You know, it's fine that you cared enough to snoop," Hermione said. "I'm actually interested in getting your opinion on a few subjects. I think people like yourself may be the most difficult to convince regarding these issues. Maybe you could give me some pointers on how to address them."

The final sentence was spoken like a question. The girl's voice rose in pitch with each word, almost as if she were asking Narcissa to commit some mortal sin rather than just asking her for advice.

"People like myself?"

Narcissa expected Hermione to back down from her comment, but instead the girl rolled her shoulders back slightly and charged ahead.

"Yes. Purebloods."

"You're very blunt this evening, Miss Granger."

"I'm merely stating a fact," Hermione responded. "Besides, I think we've reached a point where we don't have to mince words with one another any longer."

After her remark, Hermione gazed upon Narcissa, looking for something beyond the immediate subject, it seemed. Narcissa felt as if they were perched on some tall precipice, and her reaction to these words would be the difference between getting firmly back onto solid ground and falling down to the sea below.

"Have we? And what makes you believe that? Correct me if I am wrong, but the most I've ever discussed with you are fictional characters and whether unrhymed couplets mean something or not."

Hermione visibly blanched. Narcissa reached for her wine glass, while Hermione's eyes seemed to dart all over the table, searching for a response.

Narcissa felt safe again, no longer perched on the edge and back on solid ground. She had put the girl in her place and, in the process, preserved her own safety. She didn't need to be spilling her opinions – still often difficult to understand even in her own mind – to Hermione Granger.

She placed her glass back on the smooth white tablecloth and allowed her gaze to wander about the room for a few moments. When her eyes finished their survey and returned to the girl across from her, she noticed how Hermione's gaze was fixed on some point between them. Her head shook from side to side almost imperceptibly, but Narcissa noticed it; she'd been slowly developing an ability to notice all her small movements and expressions.

Narcissa knew what that shake of the head meant, and she felt her heart drop because of it.

"What are your proposals, Miss Granger?"

She asked the question before consciously realizing she wanted to or would. Hermione's head shot up, and her widened eyes looked in wonder at Narcissa, who almost laughed at the expression.

"What?" Hermione asked.

"Your proposals. Your ideas for fixing whatever it is you've got into your head that needs fixing."

"Right. Yes," she moved her utensils around the table, straightening them and placing them aright, just as she seemed to be doing with her thoughts, then cleared her throat. She realized this was an extraordinary situation and didn't want it to pass her by. "Well, you see, the Ministry has a problem with how they address issues with magical creatures, especially centaurs, goblins, and werewolves."

"What do you mean by 'address'? You have to be direct with Ministry officials. They're all not-so-surprisingly idiotic, so it helps to put things in plain terms."

Hermione nodded vigorously and continued.

"Both the way they _talk_ about magical creatures and the way they _treat_ them needs a lot of work."

Narcissa asked what kind of work she had in mind, and Hermione then launched into a researched, analyzed, and meticulously planned system of her own devising. Unsurprisingly, she focused on various educational reforms that would give students a "real" understanding of magical creatures. Rather than painting them as "dark creatures" or "halfbreeds" – both terms she kept referencing with disdain – professors would formulate lectures that instead show their humanity.

As Hermione continued, Narcissa interjected with a question here and there, but allowed Hermione's enthusiasm to develop unchecked. Their waiter returned with their food, and they dined. Hermione still talked. She now recited a few possible lesson plans, feeling her confidence grow with each minute that passed without Narcissa's criticism. Narcissa, for her part, continued delicately eating her dinner, while watching Hermione speak.

She noted her brightened eyes and slightly flushed cheeks. She was passionate about this subject, and in the face of that enthusiasm, Narcissa felt herself pulled into a similar trance. She held little excitement for her proposed plans, but the woman herself mesmerized her. She'd seen her discuss words and fictions countless times. Now, however, she saw that advocacy was Hermione's true calling. Yet, her vaulting ambitions needed some tending to.

"So what do you think?" Hermione asked after finally ending her monologue. She picked up her fork again and ate her lasagna. Narcissa slowly finished chewing her last bite of chicken piccata, raised her napkin to her lips for a moment, and began.

"You've obviously been thinking about this for quite some time."

"Just a few weeks," Hermione replied nonchalantly, although from her blush, Narcissa sensed that the girl seemed pleased at the apparent compliment.

"Your ideas show promise," Narcissa continued. "But I believe that now you should begin the work of grounding those ideas in some semblance of reality."

Hermione nearly choked on her half-chewed bit of lasagna, then through a couple gasps, managed to gulp it down. Narcissa tried to hide her smile, although a small part of her felt bad that she'd so viciously burst Hermione's bubble. She'd have to work on slowly easing into a critique – not that she cared overly much about the girl's feelings...but just for decency's sake.

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked, once she regained her composure.

"I mean that you seem to take it for granted that all dark creatures are intrinsically good, and it's merely unkind and slanderous propaganda that dictates their actions and that has led to their current social position."

"It's certainly contributed to it!" Now, the Golden Girl persona she'd always kept tightly caged around her began to emerge. Narcissa watched as she moved forward in her chair and threw her shoulders back. If it weren't for the nonsense she was talking, she would've admired her. And even then, she felt a tinge of awe. "What are you trying to say? That they're all exactly as they're painted in the media? Vicious and bent upon our destruction?"

"No, Miss Granger," she muttered in her usual polite voice that often masked either annoyance or impatience. "Your mind needs to become more capable of believing two opposing things at once. We always run into this in our literary discussions, and you always misunderstand me."

Hermione looked doubly abashed now. Narcissa had not only criticized her current thinking skills, but even expressed a fault in her book discussions. Any other person and indeed any other moment in her life, and Narcissa would have felt a perverse pride in taking the Gryffindor's self-confidence down a few notches. The look on her dinner partner's face left only a sour taste in her mouth though, and she felt obliged to alleviate her sufferings.

"You asked for the opinion of 'people like myself,' and I am doing my best to give it to you."

"But they're also your opinions?"

"To a certain extent, yes. First and foremost, I am a mother, and when you have a child, you may understand this better. Werewolves _are_ dangerous. Goblins are merely bothersome, and centaurs are hardly a true part of our society nor do they wish to be." Hermione seemed ready to interject here, but Narcissa raised her forefinger, hoping she'd wait a few more moments. "Werewolves, however, are either murderous or lethal in other more insidious ways whether they like it or not. So until some potion more dependable than Wolfsbane is invented, they must be kept to themselves for the protection of innocent wizards and witches and their children."

"So you're saying that no matter how docile the werewolf, he or she should be ostracized from society? What of werewolves like Remus Lupin? Or wizards with werewolf tendencies like Bill Weasley?"

"And what of the werewolf who put both those men in that position?" Hermione grew quiet at the allusion to Fenrir Greyback. "You see, Miss Granger? You cannot look only to the heroes and forget the very real threat that exists when werewolves – or any dark creatures, for that matter – are left to their own devices. I don't mean to suggest that exceptional figures like Mr. Lupin or Mr. Weasley are unimportant, but they should be placed in a spectrum with werewolves like Greyback."

"Young students don't understand spectrums, Narcissa. They need heroes to rally behind."

Narcissa felt a shudder run through her. This was the second time Hermione called her by her name, and although she'd like to pass off her physical reaction as a result of being inspired by the girl's talk of heroes, she knew that would never be the cause, not in a thousand years. She'd uttered her name yet again and had done so in an impassioned tone this time.

"Young people desire truth above all else," Narcissa continued, trying to move past that stutter in the conversation. "If you want heroes, then you need to make more of them than just two out of hundreds. Supply students with fictions rather than reality, and you will lead them into the same blind optimism that made it so easy for the Dark Lord to return once more."

Hermione's eyes grew wide once she'd registered Narcissa's words. She'd finished her dinner some time ago and sipped the last of her wine as Narcissa spoke. Now, she looked awkwardly at everything besides Narcissa's face, and Narcissa could do nothing but drop her gaze down to her table setting and her restless hands.

At the utterance of his title, the atmosphere became heavy. Narcissa suddenly felt the gulf that lay between them, even though she had meant her words to be conciliatory. Her past reared its head upon her just when she was trying to move forward and to discuss realities with someone so different from herself. _This_ was why she shrank from these discussions with Hermione. She knew that opinions and beliefs ingrained in her from childhood would out, and the girl would remember exactly who sat across from her.

The waiter returned, asking whether they were finished, and both women gestured for him to take their dishes away. The silence continued for a few moments until Hermione cleared her throat.

"I understand what you're trying to say," Hermione said, slowly and carefully. "And I plan on taking your thoughts into account. I had once considered what rehabilitation centers may look like for werewolves, but I abandoned the idea when I grew excited about educational reforms. You're right." Narcissa looked directly at the girl now. "But not in the way you think you are."

Hermione smirked, and Narcissa raised an eyebrow, waiting for Hermione to continue.

"It's when we think the worst of people that we push them into thinking they _are_ the worst. If we give them opportunities to show their deepest selves, they may surprise us and prove there's something more behind the frightening surface. It's not blind optimism. It's hope, which is very different."

Any other person and Narcissa would have rolled her eyes long ago, but knowing this girl as she did and knowing how deeply she considered every facet of a question, she decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.

"Very well," Narcissa conceded. "Let me know how that works out for you."

"I will," Hermione responded, then with eyes fixed deeply into Narcissa's, "I couldn't be happier with my results so far."

Although worded in the analytical phrasing she often fell into, Hermione's words struck a chord in Narcissa. Suddenly, she realized they were no longer discussing dark creatures, and the epiphany overwhelmed her.

When the waiter passed again, she asked for the bill. Hermione quickly began rifling through her purse, counting the pound notes therein, but Narcissa passed her card to the waiter when he returned.

"Not again," Hermione muttered. "Please, Narcissa, next time I'm paying."

"Of course," she replied, again trying to move past that casual address.

With Narcissa's card returned, both women stood and began making their exits. At the coat check, an attendant helped Narcissa into her coat, and if the girl's scowl was anything to go by, Hermione seemed to dislike the boy's handling of her and her outerwear.

They exited together into the chill night air. As Narcissa buttoned her coat, she felt Hermione slip her hand into the crook of her elbow. This act was usually followed with slight pushes or pulls toward an apparition point, but this evening, the girl seemed content to just rest her arm within Narcissa's. She had no idea where they were or where they were going, so she decided to just walk slowly and allow herself to enjoy the contact without questioning why.

"Sorry for spending all of dinner chattering about my projects," Hermione said after walking a few blocks in silence. "How are you? Any news in the high class wizarding world?"

"Not that I know of," she whispered; Hermione was so near her now. Obviously, Hermione's minimal contact with wizards and witches failed to inform her as to Narcissa's position as a social pariah. Rather than reveal the truth, Narcissa told a few half-lies. Let Hermione think she was still the successful, admired socialite she once was, perhaps even more so with Potter's endorsement. She didn't need to know that the only people she spoke to were family and the Golden Girl currently rubbing her fingers against the fabric of her coat.

"And Draco? Last you mentioned, he was about to begin work at the Ministry."

"He's doing very well, thank you. He looks exhausted from all the work, so of course, I'm not thrilled with it. Yet, I realize that he must work hard to prove himself after...everything."

"I'm sure he will. He was really the only person in my year I had to worry about when it came to my number one status with grades." Hermione laughed at the memory. "Perhaps that's where the animosity really came from."

 _That and the fact that you're a Muggleborn_ , Narcissa thought. She looked down at the girl's curls swaying in the cool breeze and again wondered at her ability to see the best alternative in people rather than the worst. The thought prompted yet another question that Narcissa blurted before she knew better, a childish habit that suddenly seemed to consume her.

"So am I one of your dark creatures?"

Hermione looked up at her with shocked eyes and a furrowed brow, obviously not understanding.

"A pureblood with blood prejudices. Former wife of a Death Eater. Last official member of the House of Black." Narcissa gritted the words through a half-serious, half-joking grimace. "Am I merely misunderstood?"

With understanding came silence. Hermione's brow smoothed over, and her lips pursed together almost imperceptibly. They both kept moving forward as one, while Hermione's eyes scanned Narcissa's features. A few times, Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but no words presented themselves.

"Yes," she finally uttered. "But…," and Narcissa held her breath for whatever addition that word foretold. "I think it'd be insulting to say I understand you. You're...not as simple as that."

Hermione directed her words toward the ground, but Narcissa noticed the reddened cheeks hiding behind her locks of dark, honey-hued hair. She smiled slightly, both at the girl's words and her behavior.

"So not a werewolf then?"

"No," Hermione said through a laugh. "Certainly not a werewolf. Although…"

And she looked up at Narcissa for a moment, her cheeks growing even more red if that were possible.

"What?" Narcissa asked.

"Nothing!" Hermione shook her head, as if banishing some thought from her brain. "A stupid joke."

If she respected Hermione a little less, Narcissa would slip into her mind right now and see what stupid joke the young Gryffindor thought of. Unfortunately, she did respect the girl. Furthermore, Hermione now turned her face from her, and she couldn't capture her gaze again even if she'd wanted to.

"I hope you'll share it one day."

Hermione hummed and gave her arm a light squeeze.

They walked a few more blocks until they heard the clock tolling half past eleven.

"Merlin, is that really the time?" Hermione gasped. "I'm sorry, Narcissa, but I should get back. I have to open up the shop early tomorrow for Saturday customers."

Narcissa nodded in agreement and felt Hermione's hand lead her toward a less inhabited street. Once there, Hermione seemed to survey the area, then renewed a brisk pace towards what looked like a small office, currently closed for business. Narcissa watched as the door's lock clicked open, although she'd hardly noticed Hermione reaching for her wand.

They entered, and through the darkness, Narcissa could make out a number of desks, all with what seemed like a large plastic box on top of them. Before she had time to wonder at their use, Hermione sidled up next to her and spoke in a whisper.

"There aren't many alleyways hereabout. I hate breaking and entering, but I'd rather that than break the Statute of Secrecy."

Narcissa laughed.

"I'm not sure whether that statement makes your behavior more or less criminal, Hermione."

Hermione's eyes beamed almost as bright as the streetlamp shining outside the office window.

"Less for us. More for Muggles. A bargain I'm fine with striking."

Neither she nor Hermione had cast a _Lumos_ , but the lights from outside made their faces distinguishable. Both wore masks of mirth, and both were little disposed to hide them.

"You know," Hermione began, her voice slicing through the stillness. "I wanted to ask you some other things tonight, but I wasn't sure if you would mind that."

Without any legilimiency, Narcissa intuited the kinds of questions this woman wanted to ask her. Before this evening, she would have followed her usual _modus operandi_ – learnt from her family and developed with her husband – and run from questions.

Now, however, lingering with Hermione in a Muggle office late on a London night, she didn't feel the least desire to run. In fact, she missed that anchor of this witch's hand grasping onto her arm. Running was the furthest thing from her mind at that moment.

"Ask me things."

Narcissa whispered the words and hoped Hermione heard them above her breath. Her small smile and nod revealed that she had.

Hermione bid her goodnight, and on an impulse, Narcissa moved toward her.

"Goodnight, Hermione," and she moved in for a cheek-to-cheek farewell. She hoped Hermione would just see it as some more "high class wizarding" behavior, and indeed it was.

Then Hermione lingered against for half a moment too long. She could feel the curve of her cheek against her own, and a stray curl brushed against her lips, which twitched at the sensation. She felt Hermione's hands slide against her forearms, then move slowly away.

In the next moment, Hermione's hands were replaced with the sea breeze rushing from the coast of Cornwall. Her apparition was as smooth as ever, but the change in setting and her solitude came as a sudden shock. She let out a gasp of air, which mingled with the bracing, briny atmosphere.

Narcissa raised a trembling hand to her forehead and again exhaled what seemed like an evening's worth of bated breath. She raised her gaze toward her ancestral home, its medieval stonework looming brilliantly in the night.

 _Home_ , she thought to herself. _Enough now, you fool. Go home._

* * *

 **A/N: Nope! Not abandoned. Nor will it be! I love these characters entirely too much, and I'm WAY too excited about what I have in store for them. Thank you, thank you, thank you to all those who pressed the Follow button and especially to those who left such wonderful reviews for the previous chapter. You guys are what keep me going. So please leave your thoughts on this chapter! It's my favorite so far, but I'd love to hear what you all think of it!**

 **By the way, feel free to follow me on tumblr. I'm riverlandsred on there. See you soon!**


	13. Chapter 13

Hermione sat in the back office of her shop, crunching numbers and making sure every book was accounted for after a major restock session in preparation for the new season. After perusing every "Recommended for Spring" list and finding out the final readings for local schools, she'd made her largest order yet. She felt less apprehensive about it though, thanks to just her general positive outlook lately and her new hire for the shop.

As if on cue, Jason walked into her office. He stood, tall and gangly, in the doorway. Black curls tumbled from his head and partially covered his eyes. He was young – acne still slung to parts of his face – but he was eager and driven in a way that none of the other applicants had been. Most just wanted the hipster status of saying, "I work in a bookshop." Jason, on the other hand, wanted a job, said he could lift heavy boxes, and that he was good with customers. His wide grin and affable personality did the rest, and Hermione hired him on the spot. A week later, he was still proving his worth, and Hermione was glad to have an extra pair of hands to help her, while she did bookkeeping.

"A drove of school kids just came in," he told her, "looking for a book their teacher said would be here. I can't find it though."

"Oh yes!" Hermione immediately slapped her notebook closed and walked over to the storage room. "That's the box we still haven't put out yet. I didn't expect them to be here so soon."

Jason nodded in realization and followed Hermione into storage. She was reaching for her wand, then heard Jason following her and put it away again. He pulled a boxcutter from his pocket and sliced through the tape. He hoisted two large stacks into his arms, then peered over the books at Hermione.

"And the same woman from a couple days ago is here again. She asked after you, but then told me not to disturb you when I said you were working back here."

"The blonde?"

"Yup! That's the one."

"Is she still here?"

"She was when I left to come get these." He gestured to the two stacks in his arms and began walking out. Hermione followed closely behind him and even got on her toes a couple times to look over his shoulders into the shop beyond.

"Found your books!" Jason called to the kids milling about the place, and they all moved toward him and pulled a book from his arms. Empty-handed, he slipped behind the counter and began ringing up customers.

Hermione barely registered all this and instead looked frantically through the shelves. She finally found the object of her search in the home section, flipping through a coffee table book on landscape and gardening.

"Hi," she said, and Narcissa looked up immediately. Her lips curved upward only slightly, but Hermione knew that smile and inwardly thrilled that her presence brought it out in the woman.

Two weeks had passed since their first dinner date, and in the interim, they'd gone out for two more dinners, a handful of coffee meetups when Narcissa happened to be passing by the shop, and even a movie night at a Muggle theater.

She'd suggested that last one, of course, after Narcissa had mentioned never having seen a film in theaters. Hermione had looked at her in shock, then tried to rein in that reaction and remember that this woman had just worn her first Muggle outfit only a couple weeks before. Seeing a film was way off her radar and probably forbidden if she ever _were_ interested.

Rather than make her feel awkward for not experiencing a film, Hermione instead suggested they go see one together. She'd been hearing about a new film called _Lost in Translation_ and had read numerous rave reviews on it. Narcissa internally debated the suggestion over their shared cup of coffee that afternoon, and before they said goodbye to one another, she'd haphazardly told Hermione to send her an owl with the time and place for the film.

 _The night arrived, and both women stood together at the concession stand, where Hermione explained the different kinds of candy to Narcissa, who merely wrinkled her nose and said she'd just share a popcorn with her._

" _So what should I expect?" Narcissa asked as they walked into the theater._

 _Hermione thought for a moment, trying to find a way of explaining a thoroughly Muggle technology in wizarding terms._

" _Well, I guess you can think of it as a really long photograph."_

 _Narcissa looked at her quizzically, while taking her seat next to an elderly couple. Before Hermione could try another kind of explanation, the lights dimmed, and previews began._

 _From that moment on, Narcissa sat transfixed. Hermione ate their bag of popcorn alone because Narcissa's eyes were glued to the silver screen, and while the film itself was visually stunning, Hermione kept sneaking glances at Narcissa. Each time she did, she grew more enamored with her awe-inspired expression and with the way the white light of the screen reflected on her skin in the dark. They'd have to go to more movies, Hermione decided._

 _The film ended, and they walked outside in silence. Narcissa seemed caught up in a dream, and Hermione smiled to herself, knowing that her movie night idea was a hit._

" _So what did you think?" Hermione asked._

" _It was beautiful," Narcissa blurted in a low voice. "Both the film itself and the whole…" Here, she waved her hands in an indeterminate way, trying to find the right word and failing._

" _The technology of it."_

" _Yes, precisely. It's as if they invented magic when faced with the absence of it." Hermione could only nod at such a statement. It was perfect, and summed up why she herself had always loved going to the movies. "Thank you for bringing me, Hermione. I enjoyed it very much."_

 _They began their usual post-date walk. At least, that's what Hermione liked to think of them. She still wasn't sure what their status was, but it felt like they'd passed that initial, somewhat distant stage during their reading conversations and were now entering into some other, still undetermined territory. Hermione knew what she hoped for, but she had no idea what was going through this witch's mind. Continued conversations and afternoons or evenings spent together still hadn't removed Narcissa's aura of mystery._

" _What do you think he whispered in her ear at the end?" Hermione asked suddenly, breaking their companionable silence._

 _Narcissa seemed to wonder for a moment, then looked up at Hermione. She gave her one of those penetrative stares that invariably set Hermione's heart racing._

" _I don't believe we're supposed to know," she said. "Some things are better left in the ineffable."_

After that night, Narcissa began dropping in at the shop completely unannounced. The first time she did it, Hermione was training Jason and helping him hoist books around – something she usually did with the help of a _wingardium leviosa_ , but which she now had to do with brute strength. She was sweaty, in a tanktop, and her hair was at peak frizz level, barely contained in a bun speared through with a pencil.

Narcissa, on the other hand, walked in looking as polished as ever. That afternoon, she had paired a Muggle skirt and blouse with a wizarding cloak, and the discordant effect looked magnificent on her. She's one of those women who could "pull things off," Hermione thought, then quickly registered her own state of disarray and did the little she could to look less like a mess.

Narcissa had come to see if she had a free break some time soon for tea, but after looking at the books strewn across the floor and the new employee bustling around, she began second guessing herself. Hermione also noticed how Narcissa had looked at her unkempt state, then quickly stammered her way through an excuse for doing tea another time. Her cheeks had even grown flushed in her desire to flee from the shop's chaotic scene. Once again, Hermione felt like a wild animal talking to a pristine pussycat, but she braved through her embarrassment and asked Narcissa to come by the next day.

She did, then she came again a few days after that. Then again. Each time she dropped in, she mentioned having been passing through the area or wanting to purchase a book. Hermione wondered why she'd be wandering through Muggle London. Didn't she have some society ladies on the wizarding side to lunch with? Also, she still hadn't purchased a book. Not that Hermione minded, of course. The seeming forgetfulness just struck her.

And now, here she was standing in her shop again with the continually referenced book-to-be-purchased in her hand. Hermione wondered whether this would be the one she'd finally take with her.

"For your home?" Hermione asked, gesturing toward the book. "I remember you mentioned that you've been redoing the garden."

"Yes," Narcissa responded. "It's been my project, so to speak, for the past month or so in preparation for spring. Perhaps I could use another perspective." She flipped through a few more pages, showing the lush landscapes of palaces and old manors.

Hermione's mind suddenly flashed back to the perfectly trimmed high hedges that greeted her and her friends when they'd arrived at Malfoy Manor. She quickly shook her head before the memory could fully take hold.

"That's a good book, but more of a visual one than a pragmatic one. If you'd like a book that would actually help you create a garden like that, then I suggest…," Hermione began scanning the shelf, "this one!"

She handed it over to Narcissa, then showed her how it contained sections for different kinds of gardens, according to style, size, and function. Then, it gave suggestions as to certain plants best suited for different parts of England.

"Of course, you could mix in some of _our own_ kinds of plants, but there's lots of overlap, I think."

Narcissa nodded and continued sifting through the book. Hermione took advantage of the woman's captured attention to pay a closer look at her. She relished these short moments when she could gaze at the witch without making things awkward. Today, she noticed the light mascara tinting her eyelashes, and the diamond studs on her ears. She wore her hair in a low ponytail, and it rested on one shoulder, falling down the front of her coat and ending near her waist.

"Do you have time for a break today?" Narcissa asked without looking up.

Hermione looked at Narcissa, then back over at Jason who was still dealing with the mass of students who'd walked in for their books. She wanted to accept Narcissa's invitation, but knew that doing so would probably not be the best example for a new employee.

"I can't today, Narcissa. We may be swamped with more customers this afternoon, and I still have to finish up some paperwork in the back."

"Ah yes," she said, finally looking directly at Hermione. "The young man said you were busy." She looked across Hermione's shoulder and over at Jason, studied him for a moment, then returned her gaze to Hermione. She fidgeted, moving the book in her hands from one arm to the other, then rubbed at the corner of her eyebrow. "It's of no importance really. However, I did wish to ask whether you were busy this weekend and would like to visit my home. Andromeda's been no help at all with the landscaping. More of a nuisance than anything. So I thought I would ask you. Of course, you don't have to do this if you don't wish to. I just figured that perhaps you'd like a change of scenery and a bit of diversion. We could go elsewhere too. Or if you're busy, we can do nothing at all."

She was rambling. Narcissa Black was rambling and all because she'd invited Hermione to her home. Hermione would've been doing cartwheels around the shop at this point, especially since the woman she was pining over invited her back to her place. Yet, a thorn in her side stole her breath, and she had to ask the question that immediately clouded her mind and stole the happiness she should've been feeling.

"I'm sorry, but––"

"You're busy," Narcissa interjected. She lifted her chin, and Hermione noticed how her features closed off one-by-one. Her eyes, for instance, which were so eager and bright just a moment before, were now hardened and heavily lidded.

"No, no––"

"It's quite alright. We'll see each other another time then."

She began turning away from Hermione, but before she could, Narcissa's arm was caught in her grip. Through the fabric of her coat, she could feel the thin wrist and held it tight.

"Do you still live...," – _Merlin, she couldn't even say it –_ "...there? In Wiltshire?"

Narcissa stood frozen in front of her and seemed to immediately understand why Hermione had hesitated before answering. Now, her look was one of sorrow, Hermione thought, and perhaps even pity, which Hermione felt uncomfortable with.

"No," Narcissa whispered. "I left after the war and the divorce. I live in my old family home now...in Cornwall."

Hermione nodded.

"Sorry," she said. "I figured, but...wanted to make sure." She chuckled halfheartedly, but Narcissa's expression remained the same.

"I understand."

This was the closest they'd ever come to discussing that night at Malfoy Manor. Countless times, Hermione had decided that _this_ would be the moment she'd finally talk about what happened, her feelings about it, and how they could both move forward with such a past. Yet, each time, she retreated before actually bringing up the whole sordid affair.

They'd been getting on so well without it. She'd continued discussing her plans for Ministry reforms with Narcissa, who had given her such amazing advice, everything from suggestions on better forms of infrastructure to specific Ministry officials she should or shouldn't speak to. They would also talk about personal matters, like Hermione's fear of the spotlight and Narcissa's anxieties over Draco's future (both professional and romantic). Narcissa herself always tried to keep the conversation away from the particulars regarding her own life, but Hermione decided she was willing to wait for the witch to feel comfortable. Battering down her barriers would likely only create more, she realized, and she felt that progress was being made little by little.

During that first dinner date – when Narcissa had called Voldemort "the Dark Lord" and plainly explained how prejudices from those of her ilk were hard to get rid of – Hermione recognized the massive flaw in Ginny's advice that she just put everything out on the table. Yes, _they_ may be Gryffindors, brash and brave and ready to tackle an issue head on, but she was dealing with a Slytherin...and an old school, pureblood, Voldemort's-inner-circle Slytherin at that. Opening up and sharing their painful pasts wasn't exactly something that could be done over a dinner table out of the blue. She needed time, and Hermione was willing to give it to her.

Yet, the closer they became, the more difficult became her resolve towards patience. Take this exchange right now. A woman she was attracted to had finally invited her over to her home for the day. She should feel immediate excitement, but instead she felt fear and had to ask an awkward question to overcome it.

With the question answered, however, she felt the excitement begin to creep in. She reminded herself of what Narcissa had asked of her. She wanted her to come over, to help her with a project, and ostensibly to spend the day with her. The excitement came with a hurdle, yes, but it was no less wonderful because of it. Perhaps this was the first awkward step towards transparency. Now, Narcissa knew she still held a few reservations about her, thanks to that night five years ago. Hermione was interested in seeing what she would do with that knowledge.

With that thought, Hermione buried her anxieties and pushed forward.

"So you'll come?" Narcissa asked, still in a whisper, as if she were talking to a wounded person and she had done the wounding.

"Yes," she answered, mustering up a genuine smile. "I'll be there. Which day? Saturday?"

"Saturday is perfect. I'm attached to the Floo Network, so just say Black Hall. Does two in the afternoon work for you?"

Hermione nodded and felt another flare of happiness. With each word cementing their plans, she grew more impatient for the day to finally arrive. Her anxieties of a moment ago were now flooded in optimism.

"Right then," Narcissa said, then gestured to the book she still held. "I'll just pay for this and leave you to your work."

"Just go ahead and take it. It's on the house."

"No, Hermione, I've already taken too many books from you. I hardly know whether they belong to you or your shop anymore. I plan on paying for this."

"Your money's no good here, Ms. Black," she declared with a smile. Then, in a whisper, she added, "We don't accept galleons."

"You know I have pound notes."

"Do you? Well, those aren't any good either. Register isn't working." As if to contradict Hermione's statement, the register rang loudly behind her after another student's purchase. "So I'm afraid you'll just have to take that book without the mess of payment."

"Fine," Narcissa said, trying to suppress a grin. "I'll pay you back some other way then."

Hermione's eyebrows arched, and her mouth spread into a sly grin.

"Really? I look forward to it."

Hermione felt her face heat up almost immediately, and she saw the mirror image of her own shock in Narcissa's cheeks, which flushed pink. _First the werewolf joke the other night that you_ barely _kept to yourself. Now, this! Damn it, Granger, get a hold of yourself!_

She laughed, trying to hide her embarrassment, then quickly assured Narcissa that she'd see her on Saturday at 2 o'clock sharp. Narcissa, for her part, couldn't leave the shop quick enough. She bid Hermione farewell and glided out with her new book.

As the door closed, Hermione released a huge breath and muttered, "Stupid, stupid, stupid!"

She stayed by the window and watched Narcissa walk down the pavement and further from her. Before rounding the corner, however, Narcissa looked back towards the shop. Noticing Hermione still standing there, she raised her hand and waved. Hermione waved back a little too excitedly, and Narcissa smiled then turned the corner.

Hermione's hand stayed up next to her, and she could feel the goofiness of her grin. Two schoolgirls leaving the shop looked at her oddly and even giggled as they left, wondering about the odd woman at the window.

She finally made her way over to the register and to Jason, who was then ringing up the last person in the initial group that'd come in.

"Thank you, Jason," Hermione said, once he finished. "I would've helped, but got...caught up."

"Nothing to say thanks for," he replied. "Just doing my job."

Hermione stared off into space, already wondering how she could make time move a little faster toward Saturday. Jason noticed her daydream gaze and realized she didn't have it before speaking to that woman. After the first couple visits, he began wondering who she was, and now his interest was truly piqued. Hermione seemed nice, but he knew they didn't have _that_ kind of camaraderie yet. Nevertheless…

"So just for future reference," he began. "When that woman asks after you, should I assume you're not _that_ busy and just tell her to wait a moment for you?"

Hermione's head snapped up with wide eyes and straight-lipped stoicism. Jason just smiled back at her, trying to pass off as a gracious employee rather than a nosy teenager.

"Yes," she said, surprising him with her quick answer. "When she arrives, you let me know."

"Will do, boss."

He punctuated his statement with a salute, and Hermione looked in a new light at the young man she once thought was just a quiet, unassuming kind of kid.

The door rang, and more students entered, no doubt looking for the same book.

"Let's go get more stacks."

Hermione walked to the back, and Jason quickly followed. There was work to be done, and after years and years spent working tirelessly, Hermione knew there was no better way to make time go faster than to get busy.

Well...that and a Timeturner.

* * *

 **A/N: *opens bottle of wine, gets the fireplace going* Let's just say...I'm excited about the next chapter.**

 **Thank you so much to everyone for coming back to this story after so much time away before my previous chapter! Your kind reviews and continued follows/favorites are so wonderful and make it a pleasure to work on this story. Also, I passed 300 followers after posting the previous chapter, so you guys have made me feel like a Spartan leader. My thanks!**

 **So let me know what you all think of this chapter and what you're hoping for in the next!**


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: This isn't what I'd planned on for the next chapter, but it sort of just poured out of me. I rather like it though, and I hope you all do too!**

* * *

Narcissa and Andromeda strolled through the rows of magical foliage. Andromeda actively searched through each section, reading the cards that described each plant and its purpose. Narcissa, on the other hand, gazed straight through the plants and flowers around them, looking at them without seeing them.

" _Screechsnap is a magical plant with the ability to move and make noise. It is also described as a 'semi-sentient' plant for having the ability to feel both pain and pleasure._ " Andromeda recited from the display card. "That sounds terrible. What in Merlin's name would be the use of such a thing?"

Andromeda looked toward Narcissa for a reaction, but she remained oblivious. She'd been dealing with her silent sister for a couple hours now. They had agreed to meet for tea earlier, and after spending an awkward half hour with her, where she spun her cup in its dish almost incessantly, Andromeda decided they should go out and buy those plants Narcissa kept saying she needed.

Now, here they were. Narcissa still silent, and Andromeda still trying to get her attention. They continued walking down the row.

"Ah! Puffapods," Andromeda gasped and moved toward them. "These are good, especially if you don't want to go through the work of actually planting everything. Just throw these about and they'll sprout where they land."

Narcissa caught up with her slowly and gave a noncommittal hum. Andromeda rolled her eyes and gently placed the Puffapods in their basket.

Andromeda looked around them, wondering if something or someone had spooked Narcissa, but all she saw were the usual people milling about, although a few did look in their direction. Not looking at herself, of course, but at her sister. She glared at those who did, guessing at the unkind things they were thinking about the fallen pureblood Ice Queen. Sometimes, she understood Narcissa's postwar distaste for Diagon Alley, but it couldn't be helped. She wondered if she could credit her sister's silence to some discomfort, but it had begun earlier.

Andromeda walked toward another group of plants and made a show of looking at the description.

" _This plant is geared toward reducing signs of aging, especially for particularly hag-like witches, cursed with grotesque features._ This sounds like a good one for you, Cissy!"

Narcissa nodded.

"Yes, that's fine, Andromeda. Put it in the basket."

" _What_ is the matter with you?"

Narcissa finally snapped back into reality and looked at her sister in confusion.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean the fact that you're not listening to a word I'm saying and haven't been since you met me back home. Now, tell me what's the matter, or I'll leave right now. I don't relish the idea of walking around with a deaf, mute ghost all afternoon."

Her sister looked down shamefaced.

"Forgive me, Andy. I'm just...thinking."

"About?"

"Nothing in particular. You know how I am."

"No," Andromeda admonished. "I've noticed you've been a bit more contemplative as of late, but completely ignoring my presence and refusing to take part in normal conversation? That's not your way. You're too well-mannered for that. So try again."

Narcissa exhaled in frustration, and her lips thinned into a tight line. She surveyed their surroundings and noticed more than a few curious eyes directed their way.

"Fine," Narcissa muttered, under her breath. "But can we do this elsewhere? Not in the middle of a shop?"

"No. We still need to buy more things here, and I'm not moving an inch until you speak."

"Are you serious right now? Or do you enjoy treating me as if I were a teenager?"

"Well, what's the American saying? 'If the shoe fits…'"

"I don't know any American sayings and wouldn't admit to it if I did, so I'm still unsure as to why I'm being disciplined."

"If you act like a teenager, I'll treat you like one. The last time I had to walk around with a brooding girl for a whole afternoon was when Nymphadora hadn't made the Quidditch team. Have you not made a Quidditch team? Has someone been bullying you? Did they take too many points from Slytherin again?"

"You're absolutely ridiculous. You know, I was prepared to speak to you, but now I don't think I will."

"Oh lovely! As if I haven't already been dealing with that for the past two hours!"

"Good afternoon!" A new voice chimed in, halting the sisterly back and forth that, instead of growing in volume, had been reduced to low mutters and growls, the result of years keeping arguments to themselves in their rooms at Black Hall.

Both women turned immediately to look at whoever dared to intrude upon a spirited discussion between two Black sisters. Narcissa instantly paled when she saw who stood behind them, while Andromeda merely looked annoyed and offered a civil greeting.

"Hello, Hermione. How are you?"

"I'm fine, thanks," she replied cheerily. Her eyes kept darting from her to Narcissa and back again. "It's been awhile since I've bumped into you at Grimmauld. Everything alright with Teddy?"

"Yes, he's doing fine. He's excited for summer, not knowing that he still has a few months before that officially hits."

"That makes two of us then," Hermione laughed. Then, she looked over at Narcissa again and seemed about to say something momentous, but Andromeda was disappointed. "Hi, Narcissa."

Andromeda looked over to her sister and was surprised at what she saw. Narcissa's cheeks were flushed, and her right hand drifted over towards Andromeda until it rested on the handle of their shared basket. Andromeda noticed her tight grip and pale knuckles.

"Good afternoon, Hermione."

At the address, Hermione smiled and seemed to relax slightly.

"I'm excited about tomorrow. I had to pop in here though because I couldn't find my old Herbology supplies anywhere. I need some gloves, at least." She chuckled.

"Oh, you needn't worry about that," Narcissa quickly interrupted. "I could get you an extra pair. We're already doing some shopping."

Andromeda turned a quizzical stare towards her sister. Since when did she offer _anything_ to someone outside the family?

"No, that's alright!" Hermione responded. "I'll get it myself. Besides, I think I deserve a better payback for that book than just a pair of gardening gloves."

Andromeda's wide-eyed stare instantly shot towards Hermione. The blushing girl smiled at Narcissa, and when Andromeda finally tore her eyes from Hermione, she saw the same blush tinting her sister's cheeks and nearly gasped in shock at the sight. _She knew it!_

"Well, I'll just get those and be on my way," Hermione continued, in spite of Narcissa's silence. "Ronald's waiting for me outside. It was nice seeing you." Her eyes and words were directed towards Narcissa, but she quickly corrected herself. "Both of you!"

Then, she scurried away as silently as she had arrived. Narcissa watched her go, and Andromeda watched Narcissa, how her eyes remained locked on the young girl as she found her gloves, paid for them, and left the store.

Finally, Narcissa turned her attention back towards themselves, although her cheeks were still tinted a pale pink. Yet again, she seemed ready to reenter her trance, but Andromeda wouldn't let her.

"Well, that answers my question."

"What question?" Narcissa peevishly asked.

"My question as to why you're acting like an imbecile." Narcissa narrowed her eyes and silently begged Andromeda to shut up. "You've invited that girl over to the house, haven't you? And you're nervous about it. We'll discuss _why_ you're nervous about it in a moment, but I'm right, aren't I?"

Narcissa rolled her eyes in a show of both impatience and surrender. What was the point of trying anymore?

"Yes, I'm nervous about it. What of it?"

"Haven't you been spending more time together? Last time you told me, you'd upgraded the book club for fancy dinners." Andromeda almost added, "...and dates," but she didn't want to push too hard, too fast.

"We _have_ been spending more time together, and that's precisely the problem," Narcissa admitted and began walking down the aisle again. Andromeda quickly strode after her, refusing to let this subject drop.

"Why would that be a problem?"

"I'm _not_ going to discuss this in a shop."

Andromeda saw the resolve settle into Narcissa's features and knew she wasn't going to budge on this. Truth be told, she intuitively felt that this wasn't a conversation she could have here.

They quickly ran through the aisles. Andromeda haphazardly threw various plants in their basket, while Narcissa followed behind, adding a flower or two to their pile. As they went, Andromeda watched Narcissa's features flit between elation, contemplation, and then frustration. Before, she'd just been quiet, now she seemed to be working something out as well.

When they got to the line to pay, Narcissa's thoughts finally bubbled over.

"I wonder what she was doing with that boy."

"Which boy?"

"Weasley." Narcissa spat the family name as if it polluted her palate.

"They're friends, Cissy."

"And former lovers," she sneered.

"Bloody Merlin," Andromeda muttered to herself, then spoke directly to Narcissa. "I wouldn't use the term 'lovers.' They were children. And if you'd see them together, you'd see it's completely platonic. You have nothing to worry about."

"I'm not worrying about anything," she snapped back at her sister, her eyes fierce.

"Of course, you aren't," Andromeda replied with exaggerated assurance.

After that, Narcissa seemed to settle a bit and reverted back to her preoccupied silence, but without the tint of jealousy. She hardly noticed the cashier staring at her as if she were an extra-terrestrial, and both women picked up their bags and went back out into Diagon Alley.

"My place or yours?" Andromeda asked.

"Mine."

As fluidly as their next step, both women apparated onto the coast of Cornwall and were now striding towards Black Hall. The gate opened for them as did the door, and Whishee waited just inside, ready to get the bags both women carried and place them in the greenhouse as Narcissa directed.

Andromeda followed her sister into the drawing room. With a wave of her hand, Narcissa set the fireplace going, then with another wave, a bottle of Firewhiskey and two glasses appeared on a side table. Narcissa sunk into one of the old leather couches, while Andromeda unscrewed the bottle and poured them both a generous glass.

They both took a few sips. Andromeda waited for Narcissa to begin, while Narcissa gazed into the flames in her fireplace, watching their reflection in her whiskey.

"Are you going to speak of your own accord? Or should I ask questions?"

Narcissa seemed to ponder the thought for a moment.

"Questions."

"Fine," Andromeda nodded. "Why are you suddenly nervous about seeing her? Is it the change in environment?"

"Partly, I believe."

"But I assume you were the one to invite her here. I don't really see Hermione as the type to invite herself to one's home."

"No, she wouldn't." Narcissa agreed. "I invited her. An impulse that I couldn't check."

"Why should you check it?"

Narcissa then turned her gaze from the fire and towards her sister. Her eyes were heavy with apprehension, and Andromeda now regretted being so harsh with her back at the shop. This obviously wasn't easy for her, and although Andromeda intuited what was going on – and had been for weeks now – it seemed as if this all came as a surprise to Narcissa. So she would tread lightly.

Their shared silence continued, as Narcissa searched her face, looking for some answer to her question.

"Cissy, you must speak to me, or else I can't help you."

"Can't you just…?" She said in a pleading tone and gestured to her eyes and head. Andromeda understood what she wanted. She was asking her sister to perform a bit of legilimency, but Andromeda shook her head.

"No, you have to talk this out, darling. And besides, I haven't done that since we were girls. I doubt I still can."

"Of course, you can. I'm your sister."

"While that thought is touching, I remain adamant that you speak to me. We're doing this the Muggle way."

Narcissa pursed her lips in distaste, and Andromeda chuckled softly. They both took another long sip from their glasses, while Narcissa mustered her courage. She almost spoke a couple of times, but it took a minute or two before she finally asked a question that Andromeda had not been expecting.

"What did it feel like," she began, "when you first knew you were...attracted to Tonks?"

Andromeda's jaw slackened. After so many years, they still never had spoken of that time, which was a time of pain for her sister, but which for Andromeda was a conflicted time of both pain and bliss. She tapped into that now and answered Narcissa.

"Terrifying," Andromeda declared. "Like getting caught in Devil's Snare and knowing that the more I fought against that feeling, the stronger its grip would become."

Something like pity flitted into Narcissa's eyes then, but when Andromeda looked closer, she knew it wasn't pity, but rather empathy. Andromeda's words seemed to spark something within Narcissa as well. She not only understood it, but she recognized it.

"I knew it was insane," Andromeda continued. "Both my feelings and the ones Ted claimed to share with me. I made his life hell for an entire school year because I was so afraid of him and of my feelings for him. I pushed him away, ignored him, even went so far as to bully him in front of others."

"I remember that," Narcissa whispered.

Andromeda remembered it as well, all too vividly. The hexes, the taunts, the pranks – all the childish tricks she pulled to make the boy she loved hate her. Since his death and the many sleepless nights when she wished for just one more moment together, she regretted that ridiculous year in her youth the most. They could've had one more year, right there in the beginning.

"I was still too much of a coward then, still struggling too hard against that Devil's Snare without realizing that the only way to escape was to accept my fate. Accept the fact that I'd fallen for someone I was explicitly forbidden to love. Once I did that, everything else fell by the wayside, and I knew what I had to do to survive and to be happy."

"That takes an incredible amount of courage, Andy." Narcissa looked around the room, at the portraits, the tapestries, and all the vestiges of her family. "I thought it then, though of course I didn't tell you. I just wanted to save you from yourself. I also wanted to keep you here, and knew that if you married him, I'd lose you. Selfish of me. Yet, a part of me admired you. And now as a grown woman, I still haven't the slightest idea how you did that when you were seventeen."

"I wonder at that myself very often," Andromeda said, through a soft laugh. "The answer I come up with is rather paradoxical." Narcissa raised an eyebrow, gesturing her sister to continue. "I acted like a Black. Stubborn, impetuous, a bit insane. The time I was most like my family was, ironically, the time I broke from my family."

The lines in Narcissa's brow smoothed over, and a relaxed, almost languid look came over her whole body. Andromeda knew that, however much she'd like to act blasé about their family, Narcissa still felt inextricably tied to the House of Black. Now, she even lived in their ancestral home, which put a note of pathetic fallacy to her situation. So if Andromeda found a way to show her how following her desires constituted a fulfillment rather than a betrayal of her deepest self, then the way would become clear.

"Tell me what you're thinking, Cissy," she chided her sister. "You always do this. I sit you down to talk, then somehow you turn the tables and I'm the one talking non-stop."

Narcissa smiled at the joke and placed her glass next to the bottle of Firewhiskey.

"It's difficult for me to know where to begin."

"That's alright," Andromeda encouraged. "How about we go back to the questions then?" Narcissa nodded. "Right. So based on your question to me, may I assume that you're attracted to Hermione?"

Narcissa took a deep breath in and seemed about to grab her glass of whiskey again, but then stopped herself. After a moment, she nodded in answer to Andromeda's question.

"When did you know?"

"I'm not sure. I was in the middle before I knew I had begun," Narcissa replied airily, as if reciting words already written. "It was only after our first dinner date, however, that I _knew_. Since then, I've been caught between two impulses: wanting to see her as much as possible and wanting to ignore that this is even happening at all."

"I remember that feeling. The former is the one that's winning, I presume."

"Yes," Narcissa admitted. "By a long shot. I've even been inventing ridiculous excuses to visit her at work."

"Heavens, that _is_ serious."

Andromeda smiled at her sister, and Narcissa slapped her arm, trying to stay on topic but also realizing how she _had_ been acting like a lovesick puppy these past few weeks.

"Right then," Andromeda declared, getting back to the main issue. "So what is the problem? Why are you dreading tomorrow rather than looking forward to it – as she even admitted to being today when we saw her?"

Narcissa ran both hands down her face and neck, breathing deeply as she did. On her exhale, her body fell against Andromeda's, and her head rested upon her shoulder. Andromeda knew this as the telltale sign that Narcissa was about to vent, so she braced herself for the impact.

"'What is the problem'?" She said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "How about what _isn't_ the problem, Andromeda?"

"You'll have to enumerate them, Narcissa, because I'm not seeing it. Don't tell me you're thinking of her...background."

"No," Narcissa softly yet firmly declared. "Fanaticism about blood purity ruined my family – both of them – and almost killed my son. I'd not only be backwards, but stupid as well to hold fast to such ideas."

Andromeda twisted towards her sister and remembered the conversation they'd had not so long ago about whether the "traditions" of their family were worth sticking to. Andromeda had assumed she was talking about their family motto, "Toujurs Pur," and apparently she was right.

"Granted," Narcissa began again, "I may still be a snob. I think my family is better than a Parkinson or a Weasley, but that's only because I have some pride. Not blood pride, mind you, but just...pride in my personal appearance and in my home and in the contributions my family has made to our society."

"The contributions of our family have been...rather mixed, Cissy."

"I mean before ours and our parents' generations. Although you, Reggie, and Sirius made strides in the right direction. Bella and I may've remained obstinate, but you all pushed against the status quo."

"Don't include yourself with Bellatrix," Andromeda muttered, after a few heavy moments of silence.

She felt Narcissa squeeze her hand, and she saw it as a thanks and also as a sympathetic gesture. Some things were unspeakable, and their other sister – or rather what she had become – still remained in that territory of unmentionables. Nevertheless, they both grew quiet at her name, and only after they both drained their glasses and refilled them did they continue their conversation.

"So you're fine with the fact that she's a Muggleborn?"

"Yes, Andy," Narcissa replied, almost impatiently. "To be honest, it doesn't even enter my mind when I think of her."

"Alright. Then, is it her gender?" Andromeda asked. "I'll admit to being a bit surprised by your growing interests in her."

Narcissa then sat up and looked, wide-eyed and pale-faced, directly at her sister.

"What do you mean 'growing interests'? Has it been obvious?"

"Is that really the main thing you got out of that question?" Andromeda chuckled. "Come on, Cissy, you're my sister. And although I've never seen you fall for someone, I think I can tell when my nearest blood has a crush."

"Do you think _she_ knows?!"

"Merlin," she muttered, while pinching the bridge of her nose. "That's a whole other conversation that we can have _after_ we finish this one. Back to my question, is it her gender that's frightening you?"

With the added anxiety of realizing that Hermione may possibility already be on to her, Narcissa nearly blew up at this question and took her whiskey in gulps as she answered it in a feverish outpouring.

"Yes," she began, vehemently. "Of course, it's her gender! I've only ever been with men – _one man_. And before you ask the next question, let me just answer it for you: her age is a problem as well. Not only is she younger than me, but she's my son's exact age. I could quite literally be her mother! From every possible angle, it's ridiculous. Here I am hoping for something I daren't even _think_ about, much less name, and she's probably wondering when the old divorcee will stop pestering her and get a bloody life."

Andromeda couldn't hold it in anymore. She loudly cackled at Narcissa's frustrated diatribe. For her part, Narcissa just stared at her sister with stony seriousness. She failed to see the humor in her situation, which only made Andromeda laugh even more.

"You're even more daft," Andromeda gasped between laughs, "than I already thought."

"I don't find this funny, Andromeda."

"You should!"

Narcissa rolled her eyes, growing more frustrated by the moment.

"I'm almost a quarter century older than her. And once again, _my son is her exact age_."

"I heard you the first time," Andromeda groaned back. "I assure you that you're the only one preoccupied by that fact."

"And how can you _assure_ me of that, pray tell?"

"One need only look at how she practically consumes you whole with her stare! And let's not forget that _obvious_ bit of flirtation today. Some inside joke, I presume?" Narcissa seemed to stop breathing. Her eyes were still wide in anxiety, but now they also seemed to shimmer in hope. "Yes, I could tell for the past few weeks that you've been feeling something more than mere friendship for her, but I could tell from the moment I ran into her after the _first time_ you walked into her shop that she was smitten with you."

"She insulted me the first time I visited her," Narcissa returned in a flat voice.

"Then what did she do? Wrote you a heartfelt apology and asked you out to tea, which you harshly declined because you're you." When Narcissa remained silent, Andromeda continued. "You should've seen her before she decided to write that note. When I mentioned that you'd talked about running into her, she nearly fell out of her seat in her haste to hear more about what you said of her. It gave me deja vu of all those times I had to push back all your faithful admirers in the common room, asking when you'd be coming down and if you'd mentioned them recently. So I can _assure you_ , Cissy, that Hermione does not think of you as an old woman, nor as her mother."

Andromeda reached for her drink to wet her lips after such a monologue. Narcissa still sat next to her, rigid and obviously fearing to move and shatter her moment of realization. This reaction really did surprise Andromeda. Her sister had always been the first one to know when she had an admirer and the first one not to make much of a fuss over it. She'd always taken it as a matter of course. She was well aware of her beauty and of her stature in society, so the attention she received practically bored her most of the time. Yet, here she was, acting like a schoolgirl who'd just heard that her crush just might feel the same way. She was flushed and silent, her chest rebounded back and forth with her quick breaths, and her stare was half-vacant, half-feverish.

Andromeda decided she'd just wait for all this to sink in. She knew there were probably still some reservations regarding the gender issue, but it seemed as if Narcissa practically forgot about that in favor of contemplating Hermione's reciprocated interest. Just to be sure though, Andromeda added another word.

"And don't worry your head with who you have or haven't been with before. The past is past, Narcissa. Enjoy your present now and to hell with the rest of it."

This seemed to finally pull her sister out of her trance. Narcissa slowly turned towards her, and the corner of her mouth lifted into a small smirk.

"She does like me, doesn't she?"

Andromeda tried to keep her eyes from rolling and just nodded instead. Narcissa shook her hair back from her face and swung it against her back, while her smirk grew into an impish smile.

"Of course, she does," Narcissa whispered, as she seemed to sift through her memories with Hermione and as if she hadn't just been agonizing over this question. Her sister was back.

"Ugh," Andromeda groaned. "Forget about my complaining. I think I liked you more when you were unsure and silent."

She seemed not to hear her, however, because she sprung from the couch, grabbed her glass of whiskey, and drained it in a final shot.

"In fact," she declared, while slowly pacing around the side table and in front of the fire. "She's surely even more anxious than I. I know she's attracted to other women, and now," she looked down at Andromeda, "thanks to you, darling, I feel somewhat assured in the idea that she may be attracted to me in particular. On the other hand, for all she knows, I'm completely oblivious to her."

"The poor thing," Andromeda muttered. "I can just imagine what she's thinking and feeling. Probably that you care nothing at all and that you never would, given your history."

Rather than an expression of remorse, one of excitement and of cunning crossed Narcissa's face. Her lips finally broke into a smile, almost frightening in its relish.

"And I'll let her continue to think so."

Andromeda laughed in shock and for a moment – Narcissa with her pallor glowing from the fire and Andromeda with her dark mirth over her sister and her actions – they looked like some centuries-old ancestresses, concocting a plan to ensnare the most eligible bachelor in the county.

"You're cruel," Andromeda whispered through a low chuckle. "You better send me an owl as soon as she leaves. I'm already wondering how she'll take you in all your glory."

* * *

 **A/N: I'm making the final touches on the next chapter as we speak, so you can expect that out sooner rather than later! So how do you guys think the afternoon together at Black Hall will go? Or better yet, what are you hoping for? Let me know!**

 **Many many thanks (and for my Spanish reviewer, muchísimas gracias!) for your continued support through follows and especially through reviews. You all have been super patient with this story and how I'm writing it. I'm also pleased to see that I've converted some of you into slow burn fans. It has its perks! But don't worry - the UST will resolve itself...soon. ;)**


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